


Like Flying

by Hestia01



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Friendship/Love, M/M, Potterlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met in their first year at Hogwarts, a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin.  An unexpected friendship blossomed amid uncertain times.  When two hearts join, it feels like flying</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lesson One: Fight Fair

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock, Harry Potter, or anything else I may mention throughout my story. I'm just playing with my dolls again!

1977

 

Hufflepuff first year Greg Lestrade was on his way back to his dormitory when he heard the sounds of a scuffle. He heard blows landing and groans of pain, mixed with jeering laughter and taunts. He dropped his book bag in an alcove in the wall, wedged in next to a stone statue. He adjusted his collar and followed the noise. He found his way into an unused classroom where three brawny Gryffindor students were ganged up against a lone Slytherin. He remembered the chubby, withdrawn-looking boy from Herbology class. He had the reputation of teacher's pet in a number of classes, always outshining the rest. All he could remember of him was his surname, Holmes.

“Hey!” Greg called out, getting their attention.

“What do you want, Hufflepuff?” one of the bullies sneered. “This doesn't concern you.”

Greg steeled himself, straightening himself up boldly. “Doesn't look like a fair fight, is all,” he said, hoping to sound confident. He loosened his tie and took on a fighting stance. “Care to even the odds?”

The Gryffindors dropped the Slytherin boy, letting him slump to the ground in a bruised heap. “You don't know what you're asking for.”

Still, Lestrade didn't back down. He raised his fists, ready to begin. With a dark scowl, he strode straight up to the ringleader and socked him in the jaw, followed by a punch in the stomach. The boy doubled over, catching his breath. His two cronies dove in on Greg together, one grabbed him from behind and the other started punching him. Greg struggled and kicked, kicking the one in front of him in the chest and elbowing the other, finally rearing back and butting his captor's face with the back of his head. The boy sprang back, clutching his bleeding nose. Suddenly thinking better of things, the three Gryffindors dashed off. Greg knelt down and helped Holmes stand up, brushing him off.

“You okay?”

The Slytherin boy glared at him with an annoyed huff. “I don't need help from a Mudblood Hufflepuff!” He stormed away, wiping the blood from his face, finding he was still bleeding from his mouth and nose.

Greg followed after him, undeterred, pausing only to collect his bag. Once he caught back up, he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the boy. “Here. Hold it hard until the bleeding stops.” The Slytherin boy snatched it haughtily, pinching his nose and sniffling. “I can teach you, you know. How to fight.” He was taking nimble, minced, prancing steps alongside his companion's imperious strides. He moved like a dancer or a wood sprite, his sturdy frame belying his natural grace and fluid motion. He circled around Holmes eagerly as they walked, surprisingly full of energy for someone who'd taken a beating. “I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, but taking you three against one like that seems cowardly to me.”

Holmes laughed, agreeing with him there. “Aren't you going to ask what I did to deserve their displeasure?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Oh, don't pretend! It's always the big, bad Slytherins causing the trouble, isn't it? They should just send all of us to Azkaban, straight from the Sorting. Save a good deal of time and resources.”

“Is that what they told you?”

Holmes dabbed his cut lip, sniffling to see if his nose was done bleeding. “Everyone thinks so.”

“I don't,” Greg contradicted shortly. “There are decent people in every House, and there are colossal turd-muffins in every House. Just like real life, innit?”

“So, Hufflepuff, do you think I'm a decent person or a 'colossal turd-muffin' as you so eloquently put it?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but the dark-haired boy skipped up and walked along the railing next to him.

“Dunno,” he answered, holding his arms out for balance. Holmes looked on a tad enviously. He wished he could be as light on his feet as his strange new companion. He felt even more ungainly than usual in comparison. “I mean, we only just met. I'm Greg.”

“Mycroft,” he returned.

Greg snorted laughter at this. “You purebloods have the oddest names! I like it. Wish mine was more--”

“More what?”

“You know, more mysterious or magical-sounding. No one's ever heard of a wizard called Greg. Mycroft I can see.”

The ginger-haired Slytherin grinned at that in spite of himself. It was the first time someone admitted to liking his name.

“I meant it, really. I can teach you to fight. That way, you'll avoid getting the snot kicked out of you.”

“Or at least hold them off until you come and rescue me?” Mycroft sarcastically drawled. 

“Sure, if I'm around.”

Mycroft looked his new companion over appraisingly. “How are _you_ in Hufflepuff? I thought all the ones who think themselves daring, chivalrous knights belong in Gryffindor.”

“Dunno,” Lestrade answered again, gliding around a post dividing the balustrade. He resumed his casual balancing act as he could tell it was entertaining his new friend. He'd already accepted Mycroft Holmes as his friend, regardless of how the boy felt about him. “Maybe it's because loyalty and fair play are more important.”

“That's why you interceded, because it wasn't a fair fight,” Mycroft noted. He seemed to file that fact away for later analysis.

“Don't like bullies,” Greg answered simply, skipping down and back onto the floor again. “Well, see you!” And he hurried off.

Two weeks passed and the boys hadn't crossed paths since their first meeting. Then, one day, just as before, Greg was on his way to his common room after dinner when he felt an invisible force pulling on him. He struggled vainly against it before giving in and letting it draw him along. He came around a corner, stumbling along, when he found himself dragged into a darkened classroom.

“Ah, there you are, Lestrade. Perfect timing,” the chubby Slytherin remarked, drumming his fingers together with an arrogant sneer.

Greg saw who it was, adjusting his robes and looking relieved, if a bit apprehensive. “Hi, Mycroft. Odd place to meet, isn't it?”

“I prefer that my personal business be kept away from curious onlookers.” He sounded so affectedly posh, older than his eleven and a half years. “You promised to teach me to fight.”

“First tell me how you dragged me here. You shouldn't be able to do anything that advanced yet. I can barely open locks!”

“Summoning Charm. Not really all that difficult.” Mycroft answered in a bored tone.

“That's fourth-year level magic! How do you—”

“Let's just say I'm blessed with above-average intelligence,” Mycroft reported, grossly understating the truth. “However, for the sake of my well-being, I must now learn the rudiments of Muggle dueling.” Greg nodded, accepting this response, and looked around the room. He was just starting to clear a space, when with a lazy flick of his wand, Mycroft sent the desks and chairs flying into neat stacks against the walls.

“Why won't they let you skip a grade?” Lestrade asked, amazed at his friend's skill. “Or six?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I choose not to. Slow as everyone in our year is, I'm sure I would attract far more attention as an eleven-year-old in seventh year than I do as an overqualified freak in first.”

“I don't think you're a freak,” Greg said decidedly. “You're smart, I can tell that, bit of a weirdo, but generally harmless I'd say.”

Mycroft broke into a child's honest laughter at this description. “All right. How shall we proceed?”

“Take off your top robe,” Greg ordered, tossing his aside and removing his tie as well. This left him in his second robe; it was about as long as a nightshirt, white with shorter, elbow-length sleeves.

Mycroft looked dubious, but obeyed, draping his things carefully across the back of a chair. “Might I ask why? You took on those Gryffindors without taking your robe off.”

“It's better to have your arms free. You get a better range of motion. That's what my dad taught me.”

Mycroft stretched his arms out and back, seeing what his friend meant. He windmilled them broadly in the air. Greg started warming up as well, hopping in place and breathing sharply.

“Ready?”

“I suppose.”

“Try and hit me,” Greg commanded cheerfully, still skipping in place, getting ready to dodge.

Mycroft watched this display with a look of uncertainty, a little intimidated by the athletic boy. _Does this kid ever stand still?_ He thought, wondering how he was supposed to hit this bouncing, grinning target. He gritted his teeth, drew his arm back, and threw a punch. He missed widely. This made him angry and frustrated. With a primal growl, he lunged at the boy again. Greg dodged his swings easily.

“Dad says not to strike when you're angry. It screws up your aim.”

“Well, maybe if you'd stop hopping around like a kangaroo, I could land a hit! I thought you were supposed to be teaching me how to fight, not mocking me for not knowing how!” He was really annoyed, and looked ready to quit already. Greg stopped his Gentleman Jim impression and went back to dig in his robe pocket. He fished out a couple of Chocolate Frogs and handed one to Mycroft.

“Sorry.”

Mycroft scowled at the candy, then defiantly tore it open and crammed it into his mouth. His expression changed instantly, into a look of sheer bliss, like a drug addict getting a hit. “Mummy won't let me have sweets until I lose some weight. She even cut my pocket money.” He looked at the accompanying card. “Eglantine Price,” he read. “Hero of World War II. She famously fought back a strike team of German soldiers using only an army of enchanted armor.”

“Cool!” Greg exclaimed.

“Who did you get?” Mycroft asked, feeling like a real boy for the first time in his life. It felt...nice.

Greg tore into his, devoured the chocolate, and inspected the card. He wrinkled his nose in disappointment. “Merlin. Like I haven't already got twenty of him.”

Mycroft looked at his card, then jealously at his companion's. “Want to trade? I haven't got any of him. I haven't had Chocolate Frogs in ages. Merlin had style, don't you think?”

“Sure, I'll swap with you!” Lestrade agreed without complaint. “And yeah, he had a way about him, didn't he? I mean, even Muggles have heard of him. Miss Price had style, too.” The boys swapped, each feeling as though he'd gotten the better end of the deal.

“Ready to try again?”

“Fine, but no hopping!”

Greg smiled, giving Mycroft a hand up. “No hopping,” he promised. “We'll start out nice and easy.” He held up his hands. “Hit me in the palm. Right here.”

Mycroft wound up, his cheeks reddening with concentration, and struck out. He hit Lestrade's palm with a smack. A look of pleasure washed over his plump face.

“Good! Again, harder!” Greg coached. Mycroft gritted his teeth in determination and threw a punch with his left hand. “That's it, can't just play to one side.” A few alternating hits later and it was hard to tell which boy was happier.

“Next, we'll work on your strength training. Put some muscle on those arms. Your legs look great, but--” he stopped, afraid that that was a weird thing to say. He certainly hadn't been admiring the boy's legs! “I'll find us a skipping rope for that. You might think it's just girls' stuff, but it really works out your whole body.”

“You really think I can get fit?” Mycroft asked, sounding unsure of that.

“You're not that out of shape. We're kids for Pete's sake. Put your wand and books away a bit and get out and play now and then.”

“Play what?” The Slytherin boy had no memory of even wanting to play with his fellows. Games were a waste of time, especially the physical sort.

“You know, just stuff outside during free periods. Tag, catch, football, rugby...”

With a superior smirk, Mycroft asked, “Follow Scottish rugby?” When this got a blank look in return, he explained. “All wizards follow Scottish rugby. Think of it like a code word, a way to recognize each other when we're out among Muggles.”

Greg laughed, “I like it! Really neat idea. So if someone comes up and asks if I follow Scottish rugby--”

“They're asking if you're a wizard.”

“So, when do you want to meet up next? Or will you just Summon me?”

Mycroft sniggered darkly. “Free this weekend?”

“Yeah, sure. See you then.”

From then on, they began training in earnest, meeting up a few times a week. The rest of the term flew by amid these sporadic sessions. Mycroft was already showing improvement. Soon, it summer holidays were upon them.

Greg found Mycroft among a huddle of Slytherins, hailing him heartily. “Have a good summer, Mycroft! I'll write you, okay?”

But then, what his friend did next shocked him. Holmes advanced on him menacingly with a scowl. “Why would I want to get letters from you?! Filthy, common, stupid little Hufflepuff!” The others laughed appreciatively as Mycroft shoved Lestrade away.

Just when Greg was afraid he was about to cry, he felt the front of his robe. Mycroft had thrust a folded scrap of parchment into his robe. He unfolded it in the courtyard and read:

_GL,_  
See you next term!  
Your friend,  
MH

Enclosed was Mycroft's address. Greg sniffled, glad that Mycroft's behavior just now was only an act. He didn't want it to look like he was friendly with a Hufflepuff. While that still hurt, he was relieved that they were still friends.

 

The next day, Greg woke up in his bed at home, glad to be facing a summer break. He went downstairs for breakfast and was just sitting down when a black barn owl flew in the window. His parents shrieked and scrambled to grab a broom to shoo it out.

“Greg, get back! He could tear your hands right off!” His mother cautioned. 

The young wizard wasn't put off, and he leapt up to receive the visitor. “Hello, Drusilla,” he said quite casually. He untied the letter from around her leg and stroked her. He and Mycroft had taken their owls out together before, so he was already acquainted with the fierce-looking bird. She let the boy pet her a bit more and then gave a squawk, ruffling her wings at him.

“Oh, does he expect a reply right away? All right, Dru, hang on.” He unrolled the note and read it as he ran back upstairs for his school things.

_G,_

_Well, were they properly frightened? I hope you can adequately describe the looks on your parents' faces. Honestly, if they're going to send you off to become a wizard, they should learn what to expect straight off. Don't ask how I knew where you live, I have my ways and I make it a point to know everything._

Greg read this with a laugh. He was right, as usual.

_I'm going to see if my dad can help me keep up my training over the summer. Mummy could already tell a difference but wants me to stick to my diet._

Greg made a mental note to send his friend a care package or two over the summer. While he wouldn't have access to wizarding treats, one couldn't be picky in time of need.

_Sorry for alarming you yesterday. It wouldn't do for others to suspect that we're friendly. We both know what our Houses think of each others'. It would only draw attention to our doings and I prefer to remain inconspicuous. I promise I won't be so deriding in the future, but I had to put on a good show for those guys._

_Write back, or I'll hit you with a Summoning Charm! Distance doesn't matter, after all!_

_\--M_

 

Reading the closing statements with a gulp, Greg made his way back down to the kitchen. He spread out a sheet of parchment and got his quill and ink ready.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_You're right, Dru has my parents crowded in the corner of the kitchen. She just flapped her wings at them and Mum screamed. Dad looks ready to wet himself. Funny how it seems so normal to me. I bet they think I'm weird for not being scared. Maybe I should pretend she's wild and wants to mate with  
Apollo. They won't go near my owl even when he's in his cage. I hope they let me turn him loose, he's not used to being cooped up._

_I hope your dad doesn't mind me teaching you boxing. I'd hate for you to get into trouble over this. If you keep it up over the summer, I bet I won't even recognize you in September!_

_You friend,  
Greg_

 

He folded it up and was about to tie it to Drusilla's leg when he got an idea. His mother had baked a batch of cookies as a welcome home treat for him. He went for the cookie jar but was stopped by his mother.

“You haven't even had breakfast yet, Greg, you can't have a cookie yet. And get that awful creature out of the house!”

“Drusilla is my friend's owl, Mum. She's waiting for me to finish my letter to him. Can't I send some cookies to Mycroft?”

His mother gave him a weary look, exchanging a glance with her husband. “Oh, all right. I swear, wizards have the strangest names.”

Greg grinned, “Yeah, I know!” He took four cookies, tied it up into a little brown paper bundle and stuck the letter under the string. He addressed the bird, “Now take this straight to Mycroft's room, or his mum will find out.” Dru gave a raspy hiss of agreement and fluttered her wings at him. “Good girl. Safe flight!”

 

Mycroft lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was back at home where he couldn't do magic all summer and he was already bored. He scowled, regretting sending his owl out with a letter so soon after arriving home. His parents wasted no time plying him with questions about school and it exhausted him. He rolled over on his stomach, thinking of his parting words to Lestrade, hoping he found the note in his robes and knew he didn't mean what he'd said. 

Just as he was pondering the worst, his owl returned. Mycroft jumped up out of bed and brought her in, untying the package tied at her feet. With a wicked laugh of triumph, he tore open the paper and shoved a cookie in his mouth. _Oh, thank you, Greg! One more reason to make friends with a Hufflepuff. They always know where the good stuff is kept!_ Saving the rest for later, he turned to read the letter, sniggering at Greg's description of his parents' reaction.

Feeling quite cheered by the letter and the treats, Mycroft chose to quit his lair and go out to the living room. His little brother, Sherlock, was playing on a blanket on the floor. He was already advanced for his age; potty trained, able to put on his shoes, walk, run, and climb, do various puzzles, and speak in full sentences. Not bad considering he was still short of two years old. Still, Mycroft dubbed his brother a hopeless idiot. He could vividly remember being able to do any of these things when he was even younger than that.

Fortunately, neither of his parents had any objection to his sudden athletic interests. His father even offered to take over his training over the summer. Mycroft set himself a strict regimen: rising at dawn, skipping to hundred with his jump rope, sparring with his father in the back garden, and abstaining from temptation...except, of course, when Greg sent him treats. He savored those as a rare reward for his progress.

When the Holmes's made a family trip to Diagon Alley to get Mycroft his school supplies, the first stop was Madame Malkin's for some new robes. In addition to his shaping up due to physical training, he'd also had a growth spurt over the summer, pleasing him greatly. Many of his peers last year had likened him to a penguin. No longer! In a stroke of sudden vanity, he broadened his wardrobe considerably, feeling good about how he looked for the first time in his life. He was torn between writing to Greg with detailed progress reports, but favored being nice and vague for his friend, to keep his transformation a surprise.

 

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade were feeling all too eager to get their son onto Platform 9 ¾ at the end of the summer. They loved their son and enjoyed having him home, but all the owl post was driving them batty! Also, bit by bit, it seemed as though their Greg was leaving them, taking his place in the wizarding world and slipping away from his old life. The things he would talk about, from lessons to Quidditch, went right over his well-meaning but uninterested and intimidated parents' heads. They both felt so out of their depth when it came to this strange new world that their son was now a part of that they diverted any discussion they could away from such matters. They paid lip-service to being proud of his good grades, but could offer no opinion of any substance. Soon, frustrated by this response, or lack of any, Greg sullenly stopped talking about the wizarding world and his involvement in it. It hurt him to have to censor himself for his parents' sake, but it kept them happy.

 

Knowing they weren't well-to-do, he'd begged and pleaded for a secondhand broom when they were out shopping for his school supplies. The treasure hunt was a success when his parents found an old Silver Arrow languishing at a wizard antique shop for a bargain while Greg was buying his books. By some stroke of luck, it still flew when the shopkeeper tested it for them, and only needed some care and attention to bring it up a treat. Even the shopkeeper was surprised at the affordable price on it. As he wrapped it up for them, he felt compelled to remark, “Wow, a real Silver Arrow. This takes me back. Learned to fly on one of these myself when I was young. These are classic, timeless. You treat it like a lady, and it'll always get you home. Your son's a lucky young man.” 

Still, despite the shopkeeper's good word, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade felt a tad apologetic for giving their son something so very used and very old. They warned him, kept repeating that it wasn't new, but it was the best they could find and the salesperson seemed to think it was a decent model. Greg nodded, understanding. At the moment, he was just glad that they'd bought him a broom at all. Maybe they weren't so afraid of him and his world after all, and were attempting, in their own way, to be part of it? He was used to the 'best we could manage' talk, and he never held it against them if they couldn't afford any better. He was prepared to like whatever broom his parents had found for him. All three of them were therefore surprised when it came time to unwrap it. Greg went wild! He nearly burst into tears! He'd already learned enough at school about different broom models to know that this was the wizard equivalent of finding a classic sports car in the junkyard. He exuberantly told them so amid his gasps of joy. “This...! This is a Ferrari!” At least that was an analogy that Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade could understand, it helped it seem less scary.

“You don't understand, these were discontinued! They don't exist anymore, no one can find them anywhere! You're the best parents ever!” Greg cried as he hugged them each in turn time after time. “Wait till Mycroft sees this! He can help me fix it up and really get it roaring!”

He ran up the stairs with it, whooping, leaving his windswept parents down below. With a mutual shrug and sigh, they could acknowledge that at least their son was happy.


	2. Lesson Two: One Good Turn Deserves Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Favors are repaid, and core truths are discovered as the two boys grow into young men

Soon enough, summer drew to a close and it was time to go back to school. Greg scanned the platform for any sign of Mycroft, not seeing him anywhere. Then, he heard voices--

“Now, be good, Mikey,” a motherly-sounding voice pleaded.

“Yes, Mummy. And don't call me that!”

Greg choked back a laugh, still keeping his eyes peeled for his friend. He heard him, but couldn't see him yet. Just then, a tall, slender boy of twelve strode imperiously past, making Greg start to push him aside. “Scuse me, I'm looking for someone.”

Mycroft just gave him that haughty smile of his that was almost a sneer. “I thought you were joking. It's true, though, you didn't recognize me!”

Greg goggled him, looking Mycroft up and down exaggeratedly. “My...my...” he stammered, not knowing why he suddenly felt so warm and tongue-tied. Am I blushing? “Mycroft, you...wow, well done, mate!” he gasped, then dragged him by the arm. “Mum, Dad! This is my friend, Mycroft. The one who's been writing to me all summer.”

“I haven't been writing to you all summer, Greg. We exchanged a handful of letters; that hardly constitutes a drawn-out correspondence.” Still, he politely shook hands with Greg's parents before taking his turn to drag him. “Hurry, the train will leave without us!” And hand in hand, the boys took off.

“That kid seem funny to you?” Mr. Lestrade asked his wife. She made a considering face and nodded, folding her arms. Another uncomfortable fact loomed before them. “Did it look like Greg was staring at him in an odd way?” For a moment, his parents silently wondered about their son, what they would do if their son was one of those. Then, his father spoke against such concerns. “Sounds like that Mycroft kid changed a lot over the summer; Greg said he'd been teaching him boxing. Probably trimmed up.” 

Mrs. Lestrade nodded, “Well, he's got friends at least.”

 

Greg and Mycroft found a compartment together, each looking as though he was bursting with news from the summer. Mycroft wore his usual superior smirk while Greg grinned widely with giddiness.

“Look at this!” He told him, sliding his trunk back out from under the seat and opening it up. He handed Mycroft his broomstick and awaited his reaction.

Mycroft's jaw went slack, his eyes darting back to his friend with almost an accusatory look. “I thought your parents were Muggles!”

“They are.”

“I thought you said you weren't rich,” he continued, baffled at how his friend came to have such a thing.

“We're not!” Greg replied with an excited laugh.

“I...I don't understand. Did they get this for you?”

“Yup!”

“How?! How did working class Muggles get a beauty like this for you? These are...precious!” Mycroft couldn't think of any other way to describe his friend's vintage ride. He handed it back, still in awe. He came from a long line of purebloods, and they were quite comfortably off, but even he knew how rare they were. He'd heard his father talking brooms with his uncles once at Christmas. It was a sort of hobby for them. For an unfathomable reason, Mycroft was glad that his ordinary friend could have a taste of the best. He had a feeling that Greg would appreciate it more. “Once we get it polished up and do some recharging charms on it to get the kinks out, this'll fly like a dream!” He shifted in his seat, thinking. “Your parents don't like magic, do they?” It had been plain for him to see by they way they looked on Platform 9 ¾. Very out of place with just a touch of disapproval, as if they realized that their son belonged to this world but that didn't mean they had to like it.

This fact so plainly stated brought Greg back down from his euphoric high. “No, I don't think they do. Any time I try talking about school or something, they change the subject. All they seemed to care about was that I got decent marks. Are they going to hate me when I become a wizard?”

“You _are_ a wizard, don't be stupid. I doubt that they'd _hate_ you, but don't be surprised if they let you go in the end. Muggles are like that, they can't handle us. It won't happen overnight, but, it's likely that one day they just won't be there anymore.”

Greg scowled at this prospect, unable to deny that he'd seen the beginnings of it over the summer. “I don't want to choose, Mycroft. I can't pick between my parents and being what I am.”

“Some go into hiding because of that,” Mycroft informed him, leaning back in his seat. “Disappear from the wizarding world and live as Muggles. Either because of their parents and friends, or they fall in love with a Muggle and don't want to explain. Some even lose their powers.”

This subject was obviously depressing Lestrade, who was desperate to talk about something else. “I can't wait to get back to school, I've been practically itching all summer! No magic for two months was practically torture! I couldn't even show Mum and Dad what I've learned to do! They might not even believe me!”

Mycroft chuckled darkly, “It only gets worse, with the more that we're able to do. One does get used to it. What?” He asked sharply, catching a grin creeping back up his friend's face.

“Nothing. I like how you talk. I missed it.” He squirmed, ducking his head down, certain he was blushing. He ran his hands over his hair, messing it up.

Unexpectedly, Mycroft found himself smiling back. He reached out to his friend, haltingly, then ruffled Greg's hair some more with a shy titter. Greg looked back up with a smile. For a few silent seconds, they just stared.

“Ahem,” Mycroft cleared his throat, removing his hand and sitting up straighter again. “I've...uh, never really flown before, not since our basic lesson,” he admitted with a touch of embarrassment. “And I hardly count that. Do you think, maybe you could let me have a go on your broom sometime?”

“Sure!” Greg replied, glad again for a comfortable change of subject. Having his friend's hand in his hair felt nice, but disconcerting. It made him consider odd new things. When the lady with the snack trolley came to their compartment, Greg bought enough treats for both of them.

Mycroft eyed the array of sweets before him with a gulp. “I really shouldn't. I so worked hard for this.” He drew his hands down his figure.

“Oh, go on, you've earned it. Don't worry, I won't let you get carried away.”

“There's the welcoming feast, too,” Mycroft reminded him, knowing the temptations that awaited him there. He'd spent the summer keeping careful track of what he ate, he even took to writing it down so he'd know if he'd overindulged. 

Greg sifts through the treats, “The pumpkin pasties aren't that bad for you. Pumpkin counts as a vegetable. Besides, you grew a lot over the summer, all that extra height has to come from somewhere.” Mycroft grinned at the justification his friend presented, needing no further prodding. He snatched one up and took a bite, it was still warm! He gave himself over wholly to enjoying it without feeling guilty about it. Greg had gotten some Chocolate Frogs as well, remembering how Mycroft liked them.

“All right,” he allowed, “but just one.”

Greg doled out one for each of them and pocketed the rest for a rainy day. They compared cards. Mycroft got Morgana, adding to his Arthurian set. Greg happily got Queen Maeve. After spending the rest of the trip debating over who would win in a proper duel, they changed into their school uniforms.

Soon, the train pulled into Hogsmeade station and they climbed into the school carriages. As they were sharing it with a few other students, both boys by unspoken agreement pretended not to know each other. While a number of students enjoyed inter-House camaraderie, Slytherin students as a rule preferred to be seen as aloof and above other Houses. This was probably because of their reputation as being the sort of witches and wizards that one shouldn't be friends with, leaving the rest of the school to give them a wide berth. And so, the vicious cycle continued, making Slytherin the least popular House on campus. The assigned villains of the school. Mycroft didn't mind the reputation much, feeling it added to their mystique as a group, although he was strangely pleased that Greg Lestrade wanted him for a friend.

After they reached the school and the Sorting was over, they all quieted down for start-of-term announcements. When Professor Dumbledore addressed them with warm welcome, he impressed upon them the need for caution in these fearful, uncertain times. Just as the Sorting Hat advised them, he called for solidarity among the school, regardless of House rivalries, making several students look at one another across the tables. A few looked dubiously at each other across table lines. Mycroft briefly caught Lestrade's eye before pointedly looking away. The message conveyed across the room was the same for both of them, _I'll look after you._ The war was a very real thing. A number of Mycroft's family fled the country until things died down. Greg worried about his family constantly while he was away, knowing that Muggles and Mudbloods were the first against the wall. He fingered his deck of Famous Witch and Wizard cards that he kept in his pocket, thinking of the first one he got, the Muggleborn witch who fought in the Second World War. He found himself thinking that if necessary, he would also like to do his part in the effort.

Mycroft's classmates soon took notice of his new look during the feast. One even loudly remarked, “Would you look at that? The penguin turned into a flamingo!” This got a big laugh, which was immediately silenced by an icy look from “the flamingo” in question. Whatever he looked like, he'd already made a name for himself as someone it would be regrettable to cross.

 

The next morning, the new school year began in earnest, and Greg quickly found that the workload expected of a second-year made his first-year materials look like child's play. By the end of the second week, he found himself at the bottom of Charms class. How he would bring his grades up, he had no clue. It all seemed so much more difficult and he just couldn't concentrate.

“Looks like it's time to repay a favor,” he heard a familiar, drawling voice murmur close at hand. Greg looked up and saw Mycroft take a seat next to him in the otherwise-deserted Great Hall. “I just spoke with Professor Flitwick, and he's given me permission to tutor you. Give you an extra hand. You're not all that stupid, all you need is a little more attention. Come on.” He whipped off his top robe, drawing Lestrade's gaze to him.

 _Wow..._ Greg's pleasantly blank mind sighed. _My god, he's wearing a waistcoat!_ Unsure of why that was so enticing, he stood up and removed his robe, simply following their old protocol from last term.

“Now, concentrate!”

They worked together, uninterrupted for an hour. Soon, the sun was going down, painting the ceiling in indigo. The first stars were peeping out as well. It had been an oddly strenuous tutoring session, but by the end of it, Mycroft declared he saw noticeable improvement. He looked over at his student with a look of approval, scratching his fingers through his hair.

Greg straightened up, feeling very pleased with himself. He chuckled at his normally put-together friend looking a bit roughed-up. Mycroft's hair had grown longer over the summer and it was falling in frazzled curls around his face. Greg walked up to him and, using his wand, nudged a lock of hair away from Mycroft's face, gently tracing his forehead.

Mycroft sprang back, shuddering, his eyes wide in alarm. “Don't--!”

Greg didn't see what was the matter. “What? That didn't hurt you. It's all right, I'm not hexing you.” Then, to show he meant him no harm, he repeated the gesture, simply brushing Mycroft's brow.

“Ahh!” Mycroft gasped in a mix of pleasure and alarm. “Please stop. You don't know what you're doing. It's personal, very personal! Just leave me alone!” He swung his robe back on and strode out in a huff.

“Where are you going?!”

“Hospital wing,” he told him in a voice that did not speak of an invitation.

Feeling rather hurt and confused, Greg returned to the Hufflepuff common room. He slumped down in a chair, hoping that his actions hadn't lost him his best friend. A few classmates caught his distraught expression and attempted to cheer him up, asking what was wrong.

“Look, I...think I did something wrong without realizing I did. Y'know? My parents are Muggles, they don't know anything about this sort of stuff.”

“Why, what'd you do?” A fellow second-year boy asked.

Greg gulped, knowing that Mycroft would kill him if his name came up in this discussion. “I brushed my wand against someone's forehead. Twice. I didn't know it was--” but before he could finish, he heard shocked gasps all around him.

“What'd that feel like?” the boy asked in an amazed hush.

“I thought it felt great. Scared the pants off of...look, I'm not naming names, all right? Point is, I didn't mean whatever it is it means. And I feel awful because I only wanted to be friends.”

It was obvious that what he had done wasn't acceptable behavior, specifically among purebloods. It was, as Mycroft said, a very personal gesture. People didn't just go around prodding each other with their wands. The half-bloods and Muggle-borns were a tad more sympathetic.

“Maybe if you go apologize, explain that you didn't know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Greg replied dully. He didn't have much hope there. He could still see the appalled look on Mycroft's face. He was certain he would never forgive him.

In the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey examined the young Slytherin. “I'm going to give you something to calm you, it's clear you had a bit of a fright.” As he drank the potion and lay down, she asked. “Now what happened? Another side effect is that it makes it harder to lie.”

Mycroft grimaced. He thought he'd avoided being interrogated. “Lestrade in Hufflepuff,” he reported, already detecting a slur to his voice. “We were...practicing Charms, he needed tutoring. Then he...once we were done, he...” he brushed his forehead. “Touched me with his wand. Told him not to, he did it again. I...don't think he knows what it means, but I felt him! I _felt_ him. No one's ever done that to me. Wasn't bad, felt nice, actually. Heard about it, read about it, Mummy...warned me about it. He felt...nice.” and with that, he dropped off to sleep.

Madame Pomfrey tsked, looking at the bottle. “It was supposed to keep you calm, not put you to sleep. Sensitive boy,” she muttered to herself, tucking him in.

The next morning, between periods, Greg stopped into the hospital wing to visit. He set some flowers on Mycroft's bedside table and gazed at him. Suddenly, he found the school nurse looming over his shoulder.

“He told me you touched him inappropriately. I don't know what your parents taught you, but--”

“My parents didn't teach me anything,” Greg growled. “I don't know what I did wrong, and I'm sorry. It felt...really weird.”

“You exposed your essence on the poor boy. And you got a taste of his in return,” she told him sharply, standing with her hands on her hips. “I don't know what exactly happened, but we don't tolerate predatorial behavior at this school.”

“Predatorial?! All I did was brush his forehead!”

“With your wand, he said.”

Greg wheeled around, now facing his accuser at last. “Was that...? Oh, I didn't mean that! I didn't mean...”

Mycroft's eyelids twitched, his nostrils flared, and he reached a hand blindly in Greg's direction. He opened his eyes and sat up carefully, cradling his head. “Oh, god, that was powerful.”

The nurse hid a snigger at that, glad that she hadn't given him anything more potent. “You mustn't have had soothers before.”

“We don't whip out a potion for every problem at home,” Mycroft grumbled. Then, his eyes fell on Greg and he flinched!

To set him at ease, Lestrade stuck his wand in his pocket and raised his hands. “I'm really sorry. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know it meant something here.”

“It's all right. It...actually felt kind of nice,” he admitted. “You had no way of knowing, you didn't hurt me.”

“It's a highly personal gesture,” Madame Pomfrey sniffed in disapproval.

“He's Muggleborn. He doesn't know any better,” Mycroft explained, getting up and out of bed. “I'm not going to press charges. Just took me by surprise.”

“Still want a ride on my broom later?” Greg asked, hoping to bury the hatchet. He knew he could never forgive himself if this accident had lasting injury.

Mycroft didn't answer, just slipped his robe back on, withdrew his wand, and brushed it against Greg's cheek with a smirk. Again, it gave them both pleasant shivers, and they nearly forgot themselves and started giggling. “Now we're even,” he whispered. As he marched out the door into the hall, he called out, “Meet me in the courtyard at six-thirty precisely. That broom of yours will need polishing beforehand, unless you want splinters everywhere.” Greg followed after him as they both headed to Herbology together. Once there, they separated according to House, each of them putting on the perfect mask of indifference.

That night, as promised, Greg met Mycroft in the school courtyard in front of the castle, broom slung over his shoulder. He'd spent an hour scouring and polishing the handle until it was smooth. He'd trimmed the twigs in the tail to a more streamlined shape as well. It was already starting to look like the beauty it promised to be. Mycroft had evidently been preparing for this as well, and had a bag of supplies with him. With a wave of his wand and an utterance of “ _Scourgify! Tergeo!_ ” a layer of soap bubbles foamed over it, scrubbing away decades of accumulated dust and filth. When the muddy mass slithered off, the broomstick shone. To finish it off, he magically swapped the frayed, rotten strings that bound the brush to the shaft with sturdy bands of glimmering silver twine. Greg watched him, open-mouthed, as Mycroft circled it, casting spell after spell on it, his wand gliding through the evening air like a symphony conductor. He sprinkled glittering powders and dried flower petals around it, moving with determined purpose and grace.

On Greg's first trip to Flourish and Blott's, he'd found a children's fairy tale book and saw a moving picture of a swarm of fairies laying blessings upon a sleeping baby in a forest. That image sprang to mind as he watched his friend work his magic. The sight brought tears to his eyes.

“That was beautiful,” he gasped.

Mycroft grinned, blowing the tip of his wand as he'd seen Greg do after a particularly impressive display of magic. He pocketed it and held the restored broom to his friend. “Now we'll see what she can do!”

“All right, hop on behind me!” Both boys clambered onto the broom, Mycroft holding Greg tightly around the middle. They pushed off, and were soaring! The warm air rippled past them as they flew past the setting sun.

Still a bit nervous and uncomfortable with heights, Mycroft clung hard to his friend, finding this new sensation to be quite pleasurable. “Oh, Greg, I'm flying,” he sighed with a dark snigger. 

 

“Greg, you're flying!” Mycroft whispered in awe from the stands as he watched the Quidditch game unfold. He easily found his friend among the players, finally understanding what some of the excitement surrounding the game was all about. He whooped happily as Greg blocked a Gryffindor player from scoring, letting his own team take possession of the Quaffle. He zoomed here and there clubbing Bludgers easily, as if he'd been born for this sport. Hufflepuff scored, and Mycroft cheered, waving a black and yellow pennant.

While it would not seem logical to many, he wasn't the only Slytherin student cheering on Hufflepuff. A number of his fellows had been befriended by the least flashy House of the school. Otherwise lonely souls who chafed under their reputation as the bad kids were proud to support the students who above all else valued friendship and fairness.

Soon, the game ended, Hufflepuff won two hundred points to thirty. Greg lighted on the ground and found himself surrounded by ecstatic students. A cluster of red-robed players descended as well and the teams shook hands with each other, the Gryffindors looking very down about the outcome of the match.

As his own team's well-wishers flocked to them, a teammate pointed into the crowd. “Hey, who's that?”

Greg followed the boy's finger to Mycroft, who hung back from the crowd. “Friend of mine.”

“Isn't that Holmes? That kid they called the penguin? Dweeby little squirt, isn't he?”

“What's it to you, Stephen? I like him. I think he's pretty cool,” Greg replied stoutly, waving to Mycroft.

They headed to the locker room and showered. Stephen continued questioning Greg about his choice of companions. “I don't know, that Holmes kid always has this creepy look about him, y'know? Like he's plotting something. Like he knows something we don't.”

“I don't doubt it,” Lestrade remarked casually, drying his hair off and putting his regular robes back on. None of the rest of the team seemed as interested in his associations, they sounded bored with Stephen's suspicions. The rest of the team farewelled him with pounds to the back and ruffling of his hair. Despite just being a second-year, he was already well-liked among his teammates. It gave him a sense of belonging that he'd sorely lacked up until now. He was coming out of his shell. “Catch you guys later. Great game!”

“Where're you dashing off to? Party in the common room!” one exclaimed.

“I won't take long, Sami. I just promised Mycroft a go on my broom.”

 

1981

In celebration of Voldemort's defeat, Professor Dumbledore announced a ball would be given. Fourth year students and older would be able to go, younger students could accompany an older one, though. Every student who was eligible to visit Hogsmeade that weekend clamored to go, to pick out new dress robes for the occasion.

On the way back to school after the frenzied shopping trip, Greg Lestrade felt a familiar tugging sensation. With a resigned sigh, he followed where it led him, pushing students aside, apologizing, feeling the occasional extra pull. When he finally found Mycroft, he rubbed at the front of his robes as the spell released him

“That's really uncomfortable, you know.”

Mycroft only smiled at him. “I have a favor to ask of you.” He'd evidently finished shopping as well, a garment bag hung from the back of a chair. Greg hung his up, too, as well as his cloak and scarf. “Do you know anything about dancing?”

Greg laughed, “You mean you don't? I thought you knew everything.”

This made Mycroft scowl a little, looking uncomfortably embarrassed. “Do you or don't you?”

“Yeah, sure, I learned before I started at Hogwarts. Mum insisted I take ballroom dancing classes. Wanted me to be a her little gentleman.” He made a face at the memory. Too tight shoes, a weird old lady leading him through steps, and a bunch of other kids who didn't want to be there either.

Without another word, Mycroft flicked his wand to his left. An old phonograph wound itself and began to play. The Slytherin boy closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the music. “If it must be Strauss, choose Johann. If it must be Richard, choose Wagner. Now, shall we? Or do I need to take off my robe for this, too?”

Greg sniggered, “Nah, you don't need that much range of motion for this. All right, I'll lead to start out, then I'll teach you to.”

“Are you saying I'm the lady?”

With a teasing smirk, Greg answered, “Well, yeah. Okay, this is just the standard box-step, for waltzes like this.” He placed his hand at his friend's waist. “Now, put your left hand on my shoulder, and take my free hand with your right. There.” They stood there, feeling a little awkward. Greg felt warmth bubble up inside him and he tried to force that feeling away. “Ahem. Just do the opposite of what I do. I step forward, you step back...good, now out...and together. Good. Now a turn...”

Perhaps it was from their previous boxing lessons, but the two found that they moved together rather well. It seemed to come naturally. It quickly dawned on them that they were enjoying themselves.

“What?” Mycroft snapped sharply, squinting at his friend's giddy expression.

“Nothing.”

“It's not 'nothing,' what are you grinning at now?!”

“Just...I like this, is all,” Greg muttered shyly.

There was a long pause, neither of them broke their step for a second. Mycroft spun his friend with careless grace. “I...I like it, too,” he admitted softly as they resumed their box-step. It took him another minute to summon the right words for what he was thinking, he struggled to find something he could compare this feeling to. “Feels like--”

“--flying,” they said together. Then, together, they broke into secret, breathy laughs. They stopped their dance and simply slid into each other's arms, brushing their foreheads together. Both of them gasped a soft “Oh,” as they finally indulged these sensations fully.

“Oh, god, I am, aren't I?” Greg whispered worriedly. “I'm one of _those._ ”

“Seems so. One way to be sure, though.”

“How's that?”

Mycroft gave him a heart-flipping smirk, cupped a hand around Greg's face, and kissed him. The effect was immediate and undeniable. When they broke apart, Greg gave Mycroft a punch-drunk look, distinctly out of breath.

“So that's why I never got what all that 'girlfriend' fuss was about.” They both broke into hysterical laughter at this. “I...don't think I'm allowed to take you as my date, Mycroft, but I'll save a dance for you.”

“You'd better,” he purred, kissing him again. He smiled silkily, seeming to ponder something. “Looks like I'm 'one of those' too.” They didn't seem to realize that they were still standing motionless in each other's arms. Neither of them moved to break apart. They just stood there, nose to nose, looking ready to kiss again at a moment's notice. “Greg...in all seriousness, we have to keep this secret. If they knew, if anyone knew...”

“They'd kill us.”

“Most likely.”

Greg looked troubled. They sat down on a bench together, still in mid-cuddle. “Mum and Dad don't like...people like us. God, being a wizard was bad enough. What'll they do with me now?!”

Mycroft shrugged, reaching over and stopping the record. “They don't like homosexuals, they don't like wizards, and here you are, a gay wizard.” He sniggered humorlessly. “You don't need them. If they don't want you around, I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind having you.” He let Lestrade squirm against him as he pondered what a tactile person he was. Mycroft normally preferred a safe bubble of personal space, but he let Greg cuddle him. It gave him the impression that he was protecting him, comforting him. It felt rather...couply. He kissed the top of Greg's head, nuzzling his hair with one arm around his shoulder. _Yes, this is nice._

 

Friday night rolled around and it was time for the ball. Students were crowded noisily in the Great Hall, all admiring one another's robes. Greg strode in wearing blue-grey robes, a fairly pretty girl his own age at his side. She wore stunning royal blue robes that complimented her dark hair. She couldn't stop smiling up at him as he led her down to the dance floor. “Hang on a bit, Heather. Spotted someone.”

He combed the crowd until he found who he was looking for. There, standing at the edge of the throng was Mycroft in a perfectly-cut dove grey set of robes. Greg stared at him from across the floor with an eager look in his eyes. Mycroft gazed back, looking his friend over from the floor up. Greg blew him a kiss before they both turned away.

 

Professor McGonagall tugged on Dumbledore's sleeve. “Did you see that? Or was I imagining it?”

“I saw it,” the aged wizard replied calmly. He chuckled softly to himself. “I wonder if they'll get a dance.”

“A Hufflepuff and a Slytherin. Both of them boys. Not a very likely pair, don't you think?”

Dumbledore looked surprised with his colleague. “Nonsense. I've actually seen numerous friendships of that sort unfold over the years. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw like to cast Slytherin as the perennial antagonist. Hufflepuff students tend to be more understanding, and seek out those who need friends the most. Much like Lestrade and Holmes. I know House rivalries run deep, Minerva. Just for a moment, all I would like you to see here is two boys, two people who care for each other.”

Minerva looked between the two boys again with a smile, trying to imagine them dancing together. “Their robes compliment each other,” she noted. “Just...not something you see every day.”

“They'll be trying their hardest to keep it secret. Unfortunately, not much has changed since my day.” The headmaster's voice sounded heavy with a deep sadness. “It makes you wonder, does it not? How many other students are that way, but they don't dare show it? Taught to be ashamed of their natural impulses, taught to hide and deny who they are.”

“These two dare. And yet neither of them were selected for their bravery. Cunning and loyalty are needed for what lies ahead for them, though.”

Dumbledore looked at Minerva with pride, glad that she had taken off her scarlet-tinted glasses for once. House rivalries did not begin and end with the students by any stretch. He was aware that the teachers, too, were guilty of it. “Look!” he whispered, not even daring to point.

After a few polite dances with his date, Greg left her at the punch bowl. Mycroft saw him and glided up. He took his hand and drew him along into an abandoned alcove away from the crowd. Greg smiled up at him, feeling happy flutters in his stomach. Mycroft seemed incapable of smiling without a hint of a sneer, but it was well-meant.

“Shall we?”

Luckily, the music changed to something in ¾ time. Taking this as a good sign, Greg placed his hand at Mycroft's waist, while the latter put a hand to his shoulder. Holding their free hands together, they stood quite close... As they danced, Greg crept even nearer and rested his head against Mycroft's shoulder. It startled him, but soon they both relaxed again, doing effortless spins as though reading each other's minds.

“I love you,” Greg whispered.

“Really? Even if I'm a flamingo?” Mycroft asked with a curled lip. No matter what, he still couldn't shake that particular moniker. Getting taller with each progressing year, along with that nose of his, led many to compare him to the gangly waterfowl.

“You're not a flamingo, you're a swan,” he purred.

Mycroft's response came so lightly that Greg could barely hear him. “I love you, too.”

They got a bit bolder, brushed their foreheads together, rubbing noses, then...

“They'll see,” Mycroft cautioned regretfully.

“Right, right, sorry.” Greg replied, breaking their embrace and getting a safe distance away. They both got a sudden chill at their separation.

Mycroft tried to make a break for it and leave the party early, but he was stopped by Professor Sprout. Without explaining herself, she took him by the arm and steered him back to Lestrade, then took them both to the main entrance to the castle.

“Don't worry, you're not in trouble,” she promised them from the start. “I saw you two dancing. The Headmaster did, too.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Mycroft lied smoothly. “We were just dancing. Practicing.”

“Hmm,” Sprout considered with half a smile. “Looked like you were enjoying it. So, are you two...?” She pointed between them, not believing their innocent faces for one second. “It's fine if you are. There isn't anything wrong with...that.”

Greg was the first to crack. No one had ever said such a thing to him before. “Really?!” He sounded relieved, overjoyed! He looked up at his boyfriend with hope in his eyes.

“There's absolutely nothing wrong with either of you,” she pronounced decidedly. “And you make a fine couple, if I may say so. I understand your caution. We can only hope that someday you and others like you won't have to worry. Until then, know you're safe with me.”

Mycroft was much more taciturn than his exuberant counterpart. “Thank you,” he muttered tersely.

“You mean it, Professor? It's normal? It's not a...curse or a bad strain?”

The Head of Hufflepuff House let her reassuring smile drop as she was filled with sympathy for her young student. He would be a man soon, and needed as much positive influence as he could in these last few developing years. “Perfectly normal. Not everyone thinks so, but someday.”

“Like Muggles and wizards someday coexisting side by side?” Mycroft sneered skeptically. “You might not think there's anything wrong with us, but don't tell us that a lot of people would agree. We don't have that luxury.”

“You're just a little different. At least you have each other,” Sprout pointed out.

Greg took Mycroft's hand, feeling a mix of hope and apprehension. “She's right. We'll keep it under wraps, but...I'm glad I've got you.”

For a moment there, Mycroft looked like he was going to cry. This was more validation than he'd ever gotten. He gulped and drew Greg near him again, taking him in his arms. Before they knew it, they were kissing again. Professor Sprout smiled to herself with the knowledge of a job well done and went back to join the party. She flashed an “OK” sign at the head table.

Professor McGonagall looked relieved that her friend could handle them both. She was frankly afraid of what Severus Snape, the new Potions Master and Head of Slytherin, would have done about it. She wondered how he managed to secure the position so soon after finishing school himself. He always had a bad reputation, even among the staff. He was writing his own hexes and curses by the time he was fourteen. All of his closest friends became Death Eaters. Could they really trust such a person to mold so many impressionable young minds? She gave a little shudder at the thought. Dumbledore trusted him, though, and she trusted the headmaster absolutely. He must have a good reason. Still, Minerva thought, Severus Snape was not the one she wanted to send frightened children to for “the talk.” He would probably take away house points for wasting his time, and issue detentions for being a pansy. The last time she'd run into him, he'd looked positively murderous.

“Thank you, Pomona,” she said gratefully as she made a circuit around the dance floor. Apart from the boys' display of romantic tension, it seemed as though everyone was having a good time. She scanned the room carefully, and caught Lestrade spinning Holmes into the Great Hall. He subtly kissed the boy's hand and then flitted away to the snack table to attend his official date. 

He and Mycroft didn't share any more dances that night, but they were never far from each other. As the evening progressed, and they both began to feel bold again. They sat together on a pair of available chairs, sitting out the rest of the dance and staying out of the way. They sat with hands clasped shyly between their seats, sneaking a look at each other from time to time. As the clock inched closer to midnight, Mycroft decided that it would now be acceptable to feign tiredness, and slouched down in his chair, resting his head against Greg's shoulder. Greg put his arm around him and they sat cuddled sleepily together. No one paid them any attention. Many others were feeling ready for bed as well. Together, they rose and stretched. Greg found his date to say good-night, and hurried back to escort Mycroft back.

They found themselves miraculously alone for just that moment. When they reached the hidden door in the wall leading to the Slytherin common room, Mycroft tilted his head down and kissed Greg good-night. He looked so shy and scared for one fleeting second, before he snapped his shields back into place. “Well, see you.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Mycroft gave the password and strode into his common room, taking a seat by the fireplace before heading up to bed. He smiled to himself as an idea hatched. He took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and scribbled two words on a scrap of parchment. He signed it and sealed it with his ring.

 

Greg sat by the cozy, crackling fire, stretching his legs out comfortably, grinning to himself as he replayed the events of the evening. The others had already gone up to bed, but his head and heart were too full to settle down. There was a scurrying sound and Greg felt a scrap of paper slip under his hand. He had just a second's glimpse of the house elf before it vanished. He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, pleased with what he read.

_Like flying  
\--MH_

 

“Flying,” he muttered, making his way to his bed. He laid the note on his bedside table, cast off his dress robes in a jumbled heap, and climbed into bed.

He heard vague scurryings in the night, and when he woke the next morning, his robes had been hung up tidily on the back of a chair. They looked like they'd even been steamed and pressed. Then his eyes fell on the note, and he got an idea...

Greg hopped out of bed and rummaged in his book bag for a quill, some parchment, and a bottle of ink.

_Dear Mycroft,  
I had a wonderful time last night. Thank you for every part you had in it. I hope that Professor Sprout is right, and that someday we don't have to be secret about each other. I feel as though I want to tell everybody. I promise to keep it secret, though. They just wouldn't understand. You told me that the code phrase for asking if someone is a wizard is to ask them if they support Scottish rugby. I think we need a code word or phrase for us. You're clever enough to think one up. Do you think that's a good idea?_

_Love,  
Greg  
XOXO_

He folded it up, dripped wax on it, and pressed his Hufflepuff pin to it for a seal. He clearly wrote 'Mycroft Holmes, Slytherin, PRIVATE' on the back and stuck it in his pocket. Then, Greg went out to the Great Hall for breakfast. After he ate all he could—he would never get over the abundance of food in this place—he laid the note on his plate and watched it magically vanish. He grinned to himself, pleased that he thought of a way to get a secret message to his friend.

Sure enough, as he sat outside, enjoying the sunshine, when Mycroft finally emerged. He looked out into the courtyard and briefly caught Greg's eye. He pulled a corner of parchment out of his pocket and shoved it back in again.

 

From that day forward, they took to sneaking each other notes. They sat next to each other in Muggle Studies class, making this very convenient. Although Greg was Muggleborn, he was taking the class as a requirement for his desired career path. Mycroft as well sought to be a liaison between the wizards' and Muggle government. Lestrade was shooting for law enforcement. Professor Burbage turned a blind eye to their note-passing and conspiratorial murmurings. It certainly didn't impair their grades or disrupt the other students. The caliber of students who took Muggle Studies tended to have more progressive views, and were completely unalarmed by any displays of camaraderie or affection between the two of them. They kept it limited to occasional hand-touching and hair-petting. It was never mentioned outside of that classroom, leading both Greg and Mycroft to note that their classmates who may have noticed their behavior didn't blab about it. This knowledge reassured them, secured them greatly. All anyone said to either of them was remarking that they were friends.


	3. Lesson Three: Leaving the Nest

1984

By now, enough of the school was accustomed to seeing Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes together. Many assumed that they were simply good friends. Greg had his share of friends among his own House, and Mycroft had a smattering of cronies and informants from his, but they were obviously best friends with each other. They'd been very careful over the years not to let the wrong people see them acting like a couple. Several teachers were surprised that they'd lasted this long. Most adolescent romances burned themselves out rapidly, but they seemed to be going as strong as ever. Just as happy to be together as the day they met.

One gloomy Saturday afternoon, Greg was on his way back from the library when he cut through the Great Hall. He paused when he saw a very distraught-looking Mycroft sitting alone at a table. He was clutching a letter with a look of shell-shocked disbelief. He looked up and saw Greg approaching, and fought with the impulse to hide the letter. Instead, he laid it out on the table. He looked completely ashen, the letter obviously had brought him terrible news.

Greg took a seat next to Mycroft and clasped his hand. “What is it?”

Mycroft felt tears slip down his cheeks. He hastily brushed them away with his sleeve. “Oh, you...you won't see what's so wrong with it. It isn't so bad. Just...” he struggled to speak but failed.

“Whatever's wrong, I'll try to understand. I still don't know everything about wizards, but if it's bad...it's bad.”

The terrible news was exhausting Mycroft, and he lay his head down on the table. Greg draped an arm around him, ruffling his hair. He could almost feel his own heart breaking on Mycroft's behalf.

“Sherlock's a Squib,” he blurted out shortly, dissolving into tears again. “He's a Squib,” he repeated in a despairing whisper. “He can't...can't ever come here. We're...not the same.” Sobs shook him. “And don't you think I don't know what this sounds like to you. That just makes it worse. I know what the Slytherins' reputation is like, but I don't have anything against non-magical people or half-bloods or any of it. But...poor Sherlock. He won't understand. He wants to come so much. I suppose it was bound to crop up eventually in a family as old as ours. I'm sorry...”

“No, no, it's fine. Nothing to be sorry for. Really, I understand. Well, maybe not entirely, but I can appreciate it. He'll be all right, though. He's got one thing going for him at least. He's got you. He might not be a wizard, but he's still a Holmes. He'll be fine.”

“Yes,” Mycroft gasped. “Yes, he will. He's alive, I can't act like he died or something. He's...he's just fine. And he's still my brother.” He attempted to pull himself together, sniffling and wiping his eyes.

“Here,” Greg murmured softly, as if he were coaxing a frightened woodland animal. “Come here, my swan.” And he drew him into his lap and hugged him. “I know what you need.”

Taking his boyfriend by the hand, he led him down the corridor near the Hufflepuff common room. Mycroft had gotten his tears out of his system by now, but was still very down-hearted. He couldn't shake the feelings of guilt. He worried that he looked snobbish to Greg, for mourning the fact that his brother was a lot like the rest of Greg's family. How insulting must that look? He had the absurd notion that this was somehow his fault, that being born especially gifted meant that he hoarded all of the family's magic to himself. Mycroft knew that that was impossible, but still, to his young mind something had to have caused this! Suddenly, they came to a stop in front of a large picture of fruit. Greg tickled the pear and it turned into a door handle. They let themselves in to a busy, bustling kitchen, swarming with house elves!

Mycroft looked around himself, impressed! Greg had often spoken of going down to the kitchens, procuring special treats for him. To celebrate their anniversary, he'd produced a decorated cake, just the right size for two to share, at their secret meeting spot. He'd pulled similar stunts on their birthdays or when each other's team won at Quidditch. Greg played for Hufflepuff, a Beater, but Mycroft was never fond of physical activity, and he had no desire to play against his only real friend. So, he simply watched from the bleachers with the rest of the student body.

Still, despite the previous evidence, Mycroft had never given the school kitchens a second thought. The house elves seemed to know Greg personally. He was speaking to one of them in a quiet tone, looking over at Mycroft and the house elf did the same and he gave him a look of pity. The house elf beckoned the two boys to follow him and he led them to a table and chairs away from where work was being done.

“Anything you likes, sirs, and we will make it for you!” he squeaked, scurrying to fetch some tea.

“I think you could use some ice cream. How's that sound?” Lestrade suggested. Mycroft nodded with a shrug. “I didn't tell him anything specific, just that you'd gotten some bad news and needed cheering up.” Greg smiled hopefully, reaching across the little table to ruffle his boyfriend's hair. He couldn't get enough of the feel of those soft ginger curls. Mycroft worked so hard to keep it sleek and straight, but it was no use when someone was determined to fluff it up again. That one stray lock that flipped down against his forehead was still a source of fascination to the Hufflepuff boy. Mycroft smiled back indulgingly, knowing how much it meant to him. He, too, took a moment simply to admire the view. He didn't allow himself to all that often, it was too distracting, but it could not be denied that his companion was devilishly handsome. The house elf returned, Greg simply nodded significantly and held up two fingers. The elf grinned and scurried off. He was back seconds later with two tall glass goblets filled with ice cream, warm chocolate sauce, and whipped cream, dotted with chopped candied nuts and cherries. Two more elves came to them bearing a tea tray and a plate of shortbread and jam tarts. One last one approached their table, set a tall red taper in an enchanted candlestick that played soft music as the candle burned.

Mycroft smiled at this splendid array. “This is what you get when you get bad news?” He asked in amazement as Greg poured. They dug into their melting sundaes, enjoying themselves immensely. “Why didn't you bring me back here before?” The pleasure of being here with Greg was enough to temporarily take his mind off of his brother. “And how in the world did they know...?” he gestured to their spread, it was all of his favorite things.

“Oh, they know all about you. They know everyone. Ever notice that different things get sent up to different tables? They know what we like.”

That had evidently escaped Mycroft's notice for the past six years. He'd never subscribed to the stereotype that Hufflepuffs were stupid, but he wouldn't have thought one to be so observant as to pay attention to other houses' tables.

“Never took you back here because I knew you were avoiding temptation. Hard to in the school kitchens,” Greg replied with a naughty look. “Today you needed the extra boost, your precious waistline be damned.” They sniggered comfortably at each other, nudging each other cozily under the table. In a surprisingly short time, their food had run out and they stood up to leave. “Look, I'm sorry about your brother.”

“You're right, though. He'll be fine. He's a Holmes,” Mycroft said superciliously. Lestrade seemed glad to see his swagger back as they returned to the Great Hall side by side. They arrived just in time for dinner, and despite their elaborate midday snack, neither of them felt daunted. On the way back to their respective common rooms, Greg saw Mycroft examining the fruit picture thoughtfully.

“Uh, oh. I told the crackhead where the den was hid,” he taunted playfully.

With a guilty start, Mycroft spun around and wrinkled his nose at him. “Crackhead? Den? What are you talking about?”

Greg rolled his eyes impatiently. “Don't wizards use...illicit substances?”

“There are habit-forming potions. Is that what you mean? Oh, and I had an uncle once who cast Cheering Charms on himself every hour. That couldn't have been healthy.”

“Something like that. Don't you pay attention in Muggle Studies?”

Mycroft smirked, “Why should I? I can always copy off you. You're top of the class there. Why weren't you put in Ravenclaw?”

Greg shrugged. “I could ask you the same.”

“Oh, there are more important things than just being clever. Knowing what to do with it is what matters. Making good use of it,” he pronounced smoothly with a wicked look.

“Using it for the most good is what matters.”

“Hufflepuff,” Mycroft scoffed in a parody of disgust.

“Slytherin,” Greg returned with relish.

 

Now that their final year of school had begun, seventh year students all felt time slipping away. Their workload had mounted almost to the breaking point. Greg felt himself most fortunate to have Mycroft with him to study for their N.E.W.T.s together, not to mention their standard end-of-year exams. Mycroft made it look so easy. He was already guaranteed the Ministry position he sought, pending his graduation and test results. Greg had already been head-hunted by Department of Magical Law Enforcement as well as a representative from Scotland Yard. The latter interviewed him at a neutral location, of course, and had no clue to his applicant's double life.

They liked to sit out in the courtyard together, when weather permitted. When no one else was around, they would share a bench and cuddle as they worked, rewarding each other for correct answers with kisses. They never suspected that anyone saw...

After one such study session, when each of them turned down the covers of their beds that night, they found a wrapped photograph. Like all wizard photos, it was moving, showing the two of them snuggling cozily together for all time. Lestrade conjured a picture frame in just the right size and propped it up on his bedside table. He could watch them silently loving each other all night if he wanted. Mycroft waved his wand around his, shrinking it down and slipping it into the pocket watch he'd gotten for his seventeenth birthday, pleased that he could wear this sweet memento wherever he went.

The next morning in Herbology, the culprit outed herself. Professor Sprout greeted them both with a knowing smile, then raised a finger to her lips.

Soon, even Mycroft was starting to crack under the strain of deadlines. Brilliant though he was, he was still a seventeen year old boy, vulnerable to the same worries as anyone else. He and Greg started having regular sessions in the kitchen. Judging by the fact that it took no great toll on Mycroft's figure, Greg could only assume that if it wasn't for this habit of theirs, he would have wasted away under the stress.

“It'll all be over soon. Then there's nothing to worry about. Even the worst day we might have at work won't match this by a long shot,” Greg promised him. They meandered out to the classroom where their entire relationship began, the first boxing lessons that blossomed into friendship, and more. “Nothing to it, right? If I can do it, you can do it in your sleep.”

Mycroft gave him a wan smile and a weak chuckle. “I can't wait for this to be over. And you! You thought I should have tested out when I was eleven! Would've killed me!” He took Greg's hand. “And we'd have never had this.”

“What was I thinking?” Greg agreed, drawing him in. “It's all right to be worried, though. You don't have to go all stiff-upper-lip, you're not my grandad.” They nudged each other playfully. Then Mycroft assumed a thoughtful expression. He looked down at his hands. He wore a gold ring on each ring finger, one was his father's, the other belonged to his grandfather. He looked at his boyfriend, feeling the curious sensation of time slowing down for this moment. He took the one off of his left hand and held it in his palm. Whatever the future held, he wanted Greg Lestrade by his side for it. His heart was beating very fast, sweat was beading on his brow. He pushed his hair back from his face and sniffed.

“What would I do without you?” Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath. “Greg, I...I know the world isn't...kind to people like us. We've been spoiled here, these idiots don't notice anything. Out there, people are more watchful, wary of what's...different. Different is often seen as unwelcome, as a threat, as something to be contained or stamped out. Whatever happens, as long as there is breath in my body, I won't let any harm come to you. With the dualities of our career paths, it's especially important not to draw attention to ourselves. We'll have to secret ourselves away so the world only sees our public face. Only let them see what we want them to see.”

“You're good at that,” Greg observed.

“So are you. Your own parents haven't got a clue, have they?”

“No idea. I'm afraid they're done with me, actually. They don't care about any of this. It's like they think that once I'm done with school, I'll come home and be their little boy again, be a Muggle like them. And I can't. I wouldn't even if I could.”

“Nor should you. You're a fine wizard.” Suddenly, words failed him as the gravity of what he was getting at took hold. He took Greg's hand. “Look, I know nobody will recognize it, not in our lifetimes anyway, but maybe after. Someday, like Professor Sprout said. Someday it may be better. For others like us down the road. Still, we can have this much, if you wanted to. I know...we're young, but it doesn't change the way I feel about you.” He slipped down off the seat and went down on one knee, holding up his father's ring. “Would you marry me?”

Greg's eyes went even wider than usual, he put a hand over his mouth. “Yes,” he rasped hoarsely. “God, yes!”

Mycroft slid the ring onto his finger and kissed his hand; his knuckles, his palm, his wrist... Then they both broke into hysterical laughter and tears. He leapt to his feet and tackled Greg in a hug. He kissed him in sloppy exuberance, then drew away a fraction of an inch. “Good. We're married.” And he kissed him shortly again. “As long as you wear that ring, we're married in my book.”

Greg laughed, “Yes. Yes, we are.”

They were making much more noise than was wise if they were trying to stay secret. The sound of footsteps woke them to this fact and they clung to each other fiercely in alarm. The door creaked open and Professor Sprout walked in. She looked at them both with her hands on her hips. Before she could speak, Greg beat her to the punch.

“Professor! Look, I don't care what you do to me, do anything you like. Suspend me, expel me, take off three hundred house points—I don't care. I...want you to meet my husband, Mycroft!”

Her disapproving expression vanished and she clasped her hands with shining eyes. “Oh! So you two are...? Now that's sweet. Congratulations! I mean...what are you boys doing out of bed at this hour? Go on, off with you, it's late!”

Glad that they were getting off with just a scolding, they followed orders and made tracks for their dormitories. Then, just as they reached the corridor leading to the Hufflepuff common room, Greg kept hold of Mycroft's hand and gave a tug. He stopped and looked at the barrels curiously. With a finger to his lips, Lestrade tapped rhythmically on one of the barrels and the lid opened up for him to climb in. Silently, he beckoned Mycroft to follow.

“Sneaky,” he hissed as he followed close behind, getting a hand down from the tunnel into the burrow-like common room. Pausing for a moment to look around at the cozy room, Mycroft was pulled along another tunnel. They followed it to where the other seventh-year boys slept, careful not to make a sound. They shucked off their robes and climbed into bed, spooning snugly. “I'll go before the others wake up. Can't let them catch us.”

“I know, I just wanted you here tonight.”

“Me, too. Good night, husband.” Mycroft nuzzled him lovingly, breathing in his scent with a satisfied sigh.

“Good night, swan.”

 

Greg stood by the front of the castle, pacing, waiting. He was wearing a new set of navy blue dress robes and was starting to sweat in the sun. “They'll be here. They'll be here,” he murmured to himself. He looked across the courtyard at the Holmes family. He gave them a friendly wave, getting a sullen vibe of unmasked jealousy from little Sherlock. He glared at the edifice as though its sheer existence was an offense to him, not even looking his way. Greg sighed; it wasn't going to be easy for the boy, already growing up in Mycroft's shadow, turning out to be a Squib. He heard Mr. and Mrs. Holmes ask Mycroft to give them the grand tour, to which he grudgingly agreed. The seven-year-old broke character for a moment, brightening at the suggestion. Mycroft looked across at Greg once more, waving off his “husband”'s teasing smirk. Greg turned back around just in time--

“Mum, Dad! You made it!” He ran down the stone pavement and hugged them both. His parents stared up at the castle then looked back at Greg. It was undeniable, he looked every inch a wizard in his full formal robes and pointed black hat.

“Oh, my god, it's all real,” his mother said, thinking aloud. “You really are a--?”

“Yeah, 'course it's all real. Where d'ya think you've been sending me for the past seven years?”

His father was equally speechless. “What...exactly do you...do?”

“Well, we just had our exams, so if you want to meet any of the teachers, I'm sure some are free. Come on in, I'll show you around.” He took a few light, jogging steps, urging his parents to follow. “I needed a little extra help in Charms, but I soon got the hang of it,” he called pointedly up the stairs at Mycroft. Eager for any interruption, Mycroft strode down the stairs three at a time. When he reached Greg, nodded politely to his beloved's parents.

“Hello. Not sure you remember me.”

Mr. Lestrade looked thoughtful, “Oh, sure. We've seen you at the station. You're a friend of Greg's, aren't you? Kid with the funny name, what was it...?”

Deciding to be as honest as he can given the circumstances, while at the same time not rocking the boat, Greg simply said, “Mycroft is...very special to me. Very special,” he repeated, giving him a warm smile. Mycroft smiled back and patted Greg firmly on the shoulder. He was looking immaculate as usual in a set of beige dress robes, accented in a rich, earthy brown.

“I'm sure your son has already told you about his latest victory on the Quidditch pitch. Then again, perhaps not. Hufflepuffs tend to be modest,” Mycroft remarked.

This put a lightbulb over Greg's head. “Oh, yeah! Wait till you see!” He dashed off down to his dormitory and raced back as quickly as he could. When he returned, he was carrying his trusty Silver Arrow. “Look at that, there, Dad. Bet you wouldn't even recognize it!”

His parents gawked at the broomstick in surprise. “That's not the rotting pile of twigs you were so excited about, is it?!” his mother gasped.

Greg grinned jubilantly. He hadn't shown it to his parents since they gave it to him. There was no good flying space near their house, and neither of them ever seemed keen on the subject, so he just kept it in his trunk during the holidays. “Mycroft helped me fix it up. Gave her a good polish and scrub-down, boosted her juice up, trimmed the tail.”

“Well, the shopkeeper seemed to have know what he was talking about.”

“All it needed was a little love,” Greg observed, sharing a covert glance with his companion. He led the group back outside, feeling as though a demonstration would be in order.

“And you really...fly on this thing?”

“Like no other,” Mycroft bragged on his behalf. “Hufflepuff won the Quidditch Cup this year thanks to him, second place last year.”

Greg waved the praise aside. “I'm just a Beater.”

“So modest,” Mycroft purred in velvet tones, drawing an arm snugly around him, secretly cuddling him in plain sight. “Go on, show them!”

“Remember that first time? When I took you up with me?”

“We were twelve,” Mycroft scoffed. “The two of us together probably didn't even register as a full-grown rider. You've bulked up a bit since then.” He gazed admiringly at how Greg's robes complimented his firm and muscular physique.

“Wanna see?” Greg asked, eager for his parents' approval. When they nodded a bit vaguely, he hopped on and took off! As he put on his aerial show, Mycroft leaned in close.

“Your son is a fine man. I hope for his sake that you're proud of him. I don't make friends easily, and he's been my best friend since we first started. He never judged me because I'm in Slytherin. A very fine man,” he murmured softly before standing back to watch, making the Muggles wonder if he was suggesting something else. In the end, they took his remarks at face value, as praise of their parenting and their son's good character. His mother especially found it sweet that her boy, who'd evidently blossomed into a popular athlete, was bosom friends with the more academically-inclined.

Soon, Greg landed lightly on the flagged stone walkway again, slinging his broom comfortably over his shoulder. “Whadja think?”

“That was...very impressive...Greg,” his father faltered. He'd certainly never seen anything like it. His mother closed her mouth at last, in awe of what her boy could do. About the same time, the Holmes family was calling after Mycroft, wondering where he'd gotten to. He grimaced and dashed off toward his parents and brother to continue the tour.

Mr. Lestrade took his son by the arm, giving him a curious look. “So, uh, _how_ special is that Mycroft kid to you?”

Greg gulped, looked nervously between his parents. He took a shaky breath to prepare. Luckily, his mother interrupted.

“We can tell. You're...different. And, we might not understand _all_ of your differences...but you're still our son.”

“When?” he choked dryly. “I...I thought you didn't...didn't like...y'know.”

His father winced, but patted his boy on the shoulder. “You get a hundred letters from those blasted owls during the summer. Only one sender gets you all giddy. We started to wonder when you were about thirteen. That's...also when we started to rethink things ourselves. We don't quite understand what makes people a certain way, but...”

“We won't tell,” his mother whispered. She looked back to where Mycroft had last been. “He seems sweet. He adores you. You look after each other, all right? Just keep it low-key.”

Greg laughed shrilly, tears of relief sprang to his eyes. Again, he hugged both of his parents. “He is sweet, even if he pretends he's an evil genius sometimes. I love him with all my heart. Last month, Mycroft...he...he proposed to me, look!” he held out the gold band with an H stamped into it.

This proclamation was just on the edge of what his parents could accept, and it showed. They flinched at the sight of the ring. His mother reminded him needlessly, “But, you can't get married. Not really. You know that.”

“I know. I know. But we want to. He said as long as I'm wearing his ring, I'm his husband. God, his husband, Mum! Oh! He's just...he's wonderful, really! I've never been happier! Thank you. Thank you both for letting me come here. You've made me so happy!” Greg finally let himself become uncorked, having kept this subject bottled up for so long, he had to release it in a torrent of jubilation. 

His parents both looked around them with frightened expressions, shushing their son. “That's nice, son, just tone it down,” his father said urgently. “Don't want to attract attention. If the wrong people knew--”

“They'd skin me alive, I know. We're keeping it low-key. A few teachers know, but they're fine with it, they don't blab.”

He took them back inside to show them around. Every little thing seemed to be slightly alarming to his parents, from how he exchanged familiar greetings with ghosts and subjects of paintings, the way he automatically held onto the rail on a particularly changeable staircase. He took them to classrooms and introduced his parents to his teachers, who helped coach him through some demonstrations from class, wowing his parents into stunned silence. His Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher challenged him to conjure a Patronus charm, and when he obliged, a large, silver swan erupted from his wand. By a perfect coincidence, Mycroft was just showing his parents into this classroom as well. He saw the swan soaring overhead just before it vanished, and decided to show him his. 

“Expecto Patronum!” he cried, and a bear galloped out of his wand. Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade jumped in surprise at the silvery beast's sudden appearance. They clung to each other as it loped around the room and then faded away. With his usual superior smirk, Mycroft gave the room a little bow and then left without another word. Professor Aschrel looked on with raised eyebrows and a short “hmm,” of recognition. He then decided to explain it to Greg's parents.

“Seems those boys' Patronuses are each other. And probably the thoughts behind them, am I correct?”

Greg grinned bashfully and nodded, finding it funny and flattering at the same time that Mycroft saw him as a bear.

“A Patronus charm is a protective force, made of a happy thought or memory. They often take the form of someone the caster loves, something reminiscent of them, anyway. Other times, it shows itself as an embodiment of the caster's true nature. A witch or wizard does not pick what form their Patronus takes. It comes from inside them.” With that, Greg led his parents out.

“Was he right?” his mother asked as they descended thankfully stationary steps.

Greg looked cautiously at his parents with a guilty smile. “He's my swan,” he answered simply. His parents looked at each other oddly. Neither of them could see anything remotely swan-like about their son's boyfriend. Maybe a stork or a flamingo. They could easily see how Mycroft saw Greg as a bear. He was strongly-built, young as he was, and his shaggy black hair helped the suggestion as well.

At various points throughout the tour, classmates called out to him in a friendly way. It was plain for Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade to see that their son was well-liked among his fellows, but he didn't seem to have a big head about it. They also caught a glimpse again of Mycroft and his family. He appeared a much more solitary figure, and it seemed to be by choice. They heard no one hail him as others did their son; he kept a safe distance from the rest of the school, looking oddly ominous. Soon, the bell was ringing.

“Lunchtime,” Greg announced, and he led them back down to the Great Hall. His parents followed after him. As strange of a world as this all was, they were glad that their son had fit in here. From his excited stream of chatter, they heard all about his job prospects, how the wizarding world required plants in the Muggle world to keep both sides safe so he'd be answering to higher-ups in both worlds.

“I won't be far, so don't worry. I'll still come home and visit. Once I move out, that is,” he laughed.

“Look at you, all grown up,” his mother cooed at him. “Still can't believe all of this magic business is real.”

Greg had his parents sit with him at the Hufflepuff table. A few of his friends from the Quidditch team gathered as well and introduced themselves as food appeared on the tables. Greg found a folded note that appeared at his place. He pocketed it smoothly, but his parents recognized his expression and knew the message had to have been from Mycroft. He positively sparkled.

Under the table, Mrs. Lestrade took her husband's hand. They exchanged looks with a shrug. “They're just kids in love, like we used to be.” After a thoughtful pause, Mr. Lestrade nodded in quiet agreement. Their son was different, far different than either of them would have ever expected or imagined, but he was still their son. 

 

The graduation ceremony was strangely similar to the Muggle variety. Long, a few speeches, a musical interlude, and then the long list of names as they walked across the stage to get their diplomas. Greg's graduating class had planned a stunt in advance, especially with those with Muggle parents in mind. As each one received his or her diploma, each of them turned on the spot and Disapparated, reappearing back at their seat. Some had concealed small vials to create smoke or flames or conjured flocks of birds or butterflies to heighten the effect. Greg was no different. It was lucky that he wasn't the first to walk, or his parents would have been scared to death at the sight of him vanishing in a flurry of shooting stars and reappearing with a _bang_ between them.

Soon, it was time for the parents to go home, and the graduating class of 1985 changed out of their good robes back into their uniforms for the Leaving Feast. There were many hugs and tears at just about every table. Greg and Mycroft met up in the hall between their common rooms and shared a hasty embrace.

“Dru knows where to find you.”

“Maybe I'll just Summon you,” Greg winked, then gave him a kiss. “Write me when you're Minister of Magic.” Mycroft laughed, leaning on his umbrella. Greg had given it to him and told him how dapper it made him look. He carried it with him everywhere ever since. He had plans to conceal his wand in it while in the Muggle world. It made an awfully handy staff.


	4. Lesson Four: Cunning and Loyalty

1994

Mycroft and Greg had maintained their secret relationship over the years, despite not officially living together, they would try to see each other regularly during the week. Mycroft could never openly discuss what his job entailed, it was all “classified information of a sensitive nature.” Whatever it was, he was obviously well-paid for it. His home was in an upscale neighborhood and he maintained an aura of aristocratic dignity. Greg had originally felt uncomfortably out of place amid such luxury, and preferred his own little flat in town. Mycroft evidently had no such difficulty with his living arrangements. He was clearly used to fine living and saw nothing out of the ordinary about it. It actually pleased him to see it all through his partner's eyes. It gave it a fun sense of novelty.

Meanwhile, Greg Lestrade was finding his feet at Scotland Yard. His Muggle upbringing worked to his advantage there, he had no trouble fitting in. He would be called in by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to report in and aid their investigations as well. He saw it as the best of both worlds. His parents had given him a handsome desk set that he kept at his desk at the Yard. It was a perfect place to conceal his wand among the letter opener, fountain pen, magnifier, and other accessories. That way, he always had it ready at hand. He felt naked without it.

While Greg had been with the team long enough to no longer be the “baby” of the bunch, his colleagues still remarked on his peculiarities. The way he'd sometimes stop himself in the middle of a word, substituting another with a nervous twitch, other little things that singled him out. Then one day, something happened to wholly highlight his oddness. Right about lunchtime, they had the windows open to enjoy the nice weather, when a black barn owl swooped in and landed right at Lestrade's desk. This got everyone's attention. Many of them had never seen an owl before, let alone up close. It dropped some heavy yellow pieces of paper by Greg's hand and rasped sharply. He'd been lying face-down on his desk, exhausted from having put in many extra shifts at his “other job” during the hunt for Sirius Black. As frustrating as it had been to have him slip through the Ministry's fingers that summer, it was certainly a relief to have him off English soil. The matter was out of his hands and more importantly, off of his desk. Of course, there was no rest for the weary. He'd been brought in as a resident Muggle expert to help pull off the Quidditch World Cup. The final was set to be played next week and tension was high regarding all manner of security. He knew that Mycroft was involved in it, too, as well as the next major event slated to begin in October. It was a busy time on all sides.

The insistent bird nudged him with her claw, giving another sharp rasp for attention. Greg sat up with a start.

“Drusilla!” he hissed admonishingly. “What in the world?!” He examined the paper before pocketing it quickly. “Yes, thank you.” Realizing that people were staring and the best thing he can do is act natural, he stroked the owl familiarly, making clicking and kissing noises at her. “All right. No, Apollo is at home. I'll let him out tonight. Go on, shoo. You shouldn't be flying out this far, anyway. You're getting too old for this. And tell your 'mummy' that neither of you are exactly subtle!” The owl stretched her wings and took off out the window, and a shadow fell over him.

“What was that?” his superior demanded.

Greg gulped, trying to look innocent. “What?”

“That, just then. You talked to that owl. Did he understand you?”

“She,” Greg corrected absently. “And, kind of.”

“Did that thing just bring you something? I thought I saw it drop some paper on your desk.”

“What? No,” he denied smoothly. “No, that would be silly, wouldn't it? Bit big for a carrier pigeon, eh?” He laughed. Luckily, his superior joined in.

“Yeah, that would be. You know her, though? Her owner, rather?”

Greg figured that this would be safe to admit. “Yeah, I do. Bit of a drama queen, really. I mean, you'd have to be, right?”

“Your wife?” the man asked, glancing at his subordinate's wedding ring.

Lestrade considered, then nodded. “Yeah.” And he, too, looked at his ring with a smile. Once everyone dispersed away from his desk, he looked at what he'd received. A ticket to the World Cup final, a very good seat, too! He looked at the enclosed note.

_Dear Greg,_

_I hope the mundanity of your job hasn't dampened your spirits toward seeing a good match. After the work you put in, it would be unfair if you had to miss the final. I won't take no for an answer. Your superiors will realize that they can spare you for a weekend. See you very soon. There are things I need to discuss with you._

_Love,  
your Swan_

 

Greg smiled at the letter. He gave a happy sigh and stuck the ticket into his billfold. He appreciated the way Mycroft worded his letter, so that even if outside eyes saw it, they would see nothing out of the ordinary about it.

True to his nature, Mycroft was quite adept at blending in and finding advantageous positions in whatever world he happened to find himself. His position as a “minor government official” was a perfect ruse for his true place in the world. No one would ever suspect that he pulled invisible strings wherever he went, and certainly no one would peg him as a wizard.

Greg had originally thought he looked odd in Muggle clothes, remembering the first time they'd gone shopping together and Mycroft needed his help to dress appropriately. The second the man discovered suits, however, he was off like a shot. He bought numerous ones and had them professionally altered for a perfect fit. On that first shopping day, Greg must have seen him model dozens of different three piece suits for him, his suave and graceful lover positively glowing with delight at these strange Muggle garments.

“Forget swan, you're a peacock,” Greg had teased playfully as the taller man spun in place for him.

Greg chuckled at the memory before putting the letter away and getting back to business.

 

That evening, as Greg was wrapping up for the night, he felt a familiar tugging on his chest. It caught him by surprise, and before he could stop himself, he let out a startled gasp. Sally Donovan, a junior officer, saw him stumble and clutch his chest. “All right, Lestrade?”

He recovered, recognizing the symptom of being on the receiving end of a Summoning Charm, and took a few steps to appease the summoner. “Yeah, fine, Donovan.” He felt another tug and was soon overcome with the irresistible urge to obey. He found himself led out the door. From there, though, he diverted from the commanded course. Instead, he slipped into a dark, abandoned alley, and Disapparated.

He reappeared in front of his flat, then went up the stairs to grab a few things that he might need if he spent the night at Mycroft's house. From there, he shouldered his broom and went up to the roof, still straining against the effects of the charm. Once out in the free night air, he took flight, following the source of the spell as he glided over thick clouds. He alighted on a wrought-iron balcony like Peter Pan, letting himself in through the window and stepping into Mycroft's office. 

The lofty man sat alone at his desk, poring over a stack of documents that needed his attention. There were two piles, one of ordinary typing paper and another of yellow parchment. A quill and ink set sat by his right hand, while a large and impressive-looking Macintosh computer glowed at his left-hand side. This was obviously a new acquisition, as an old-fashioned typewriter sat dejectedly in the corner of the office, waiting to be hauled away by some staff member in the morning.

Mycroft looked up at him in surprise, rising to receive him, but by the look of him he wasn't expecting him. “What the hell are you thinking?!” he hissed.

With slightly less than his former agility and grace, Greg hopped down from the windowsill and dropped his knapsack. He was no longer the nimble eleven-year-old he used to be, but he still wasn't ungainly. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, of course, but...” Mycroft looked him up and down. “But this?!”

“Don't worry, I kept above the clouds,” he assured him, sliding his broom into the nearby umbrella holder which sat empty by the window. A perfect parking spot for his means of transport. “Came as quick as I could. I didn't want to risk Apparating in case you were with someone.”

“Yes, that was considerate, but that doesn't answer what you're doing here now!”

“You Summoned me, Mycroft. I couldn't not come unless I wanted to get torn in half.”

“I didn't Summon--” Mycroft began to deny, then looked at the umbrella in his hand. “Oh. Oh.” He laid it aside, brushing his hands together. “My apologies,” he muttered. “I let my thoughts get carried away.”

Greg sat down comfortably in a loveseat, putting his feet up on a footstool. “You saying you did that by accident?”

“I was thinking of you,” Mycroft muttered in confession. “Look, it's good that you're here. There's something I needed to talk to you about. Maybe, ask for your assistance, if you're not stretched too thin elsewhere.”

“Anything, Swan,” Greg assured him, getting a smile in return. Mycroft poured them each a glass of mulled mead and settled down on the cushion next to him.

He sipped thoughtfully, looking into the fireplace and then back at his husband. He heaved a sigh. “Remember back at school, the first time you took me to the kitchens? You teased me later, saying you'd 'shown the crackhead where the den was hid'?” Greg nodded, surprised when Mycroft took his hand and gave it a squeeze, as if for support or courage. “I would never have thought...never...” he stared into his glass, admiring the clear sunset liquid. Transparent drops clung to the sides of the glass, he found it appropriately poetic how they resembled tears. Tears he himself could not shed.

“Sherlock...he...was found in such a place. And I don't mean in an elf-run sweetshop. He...has a problem, which means the family has a problem. Our parents are beside themselves, they don't know...” Mycroft broke off, covering his mouth. Greg gazed silently at him, pity etched in his face, as well as astonishment. “I found him,” Mycroft grunted hoarsely, taking another drink to wet his throat. “I found him in this derelict, filthy place—the people he consorted with there...” he shuddered. “He looked at me, his eyes were all out of focus, he was sweating and shaking, and he...he told me 'I can almost feel it, Mycroft. It's so close, I know it! I...can almost feel the magic. It's almost there.' Is this my fault, Greg? For him being a...a Squib? I've done my best to help him, but no matter what I do, he resents me. Then seeing him like that, as if that poison some Muggle gave him would make him a wizard! Is this my punishment? Next time he was discovered like that, it was something different. He was almost immobile.”

“Morphine,” Greg surmised as easily as he placed the first substance as cocaine.

“Morphine, yes, named after the god of dreams. He just lay there, listless, grinning inanely at nothing. He told me that it helped him forget, that he didn't mind so much being what he was as long as he was under that potion's influence. He hates himself and he hates me more. God, he's only sixteen! If this is the path he's starting down, I can't imagine him being alive at our age!”

Greg downed the rest of his mead and set the glass aside. “Good batch,” he remarked, turning the bottle to see the label, giving it a knowledgeable nod. “Look, Mycroft, he's young, he's bound to do stupid stuff to cope with being...different. Imagine if it was the other way round. Think what might've happened to me if my parents hadn't let me go to Hogwarts. I would have thought I was mad! I would have hated myself and been confused and angry and...so lonely. I would have thought I was the only one in the world, that I was a freak. It would have been something to be ashamed of.” Mycroft listened with mild horror at the self-portrait his lover painted. He'd always been perfectly satisfied to be exactly as he was and couldn't imagine being made to feel inferior or ashamed. He felt a stab of pity for what his Greg almost was. He wondered if he, too, would have turned to illicit substances to help him cope with his perceived abnormality. Greg continued, “Sherlock needs friends. You tried to be that, but he's too intent on punishing you for something that _isn't your fault. _You didn't do this to him, you didn't do anything to him.” He refilled their glasses. “At the very least, he needs a hobby, something useful to do that he can be good at. He probably feels horribly inadequate compared to you. You can't help it, but you're a tough act to follow.”__

__“I know. He's my brother, I...I love him. He's too content to imagine I hate him, though. He holds me in contempt, so he thinks I feel the same for him.”_ _

__“Maybe you should just give him what he wants,” Greg shrugged. “I never had any siblings, so I don't pretend to know how this works, but maybe he just wants you to back off and let him sort himself out.”_ _

__“You think he's in any fit state to--” Mycroft growled._ _

__“I'm not saying to really do it, just...do what you do best. Do it from the sidelines. Behind the scenes, like you do for work.”_ _

__Mycroft took another sip and cocked his eyebrow, hmming in agreement. “Good thinking. I could just have someone keep an eye on him for me, report back periodically, that might be less obtrusive.” He settled back in his seat, looking as though his burden was at least somewhat lightened by this discussion. Greg slipped an arm around him and pulled him close for a cuddle. The raven-haired man kissed his temple, making soothing noises as he did so. Mycroft felt worry leave his heart and he felt nothing but love for the man sitting next to him._ _

__“Been following the World Cup?” Mycroft asked abruptly._ _

__“Mm-hmm,” Greg agreed, taking another sip from his glass. “Glad Ireland's in the final two, but I have to say that Krum kid for Bulgaria can sure fly. Excellent Seeker. Too bad we can't have it both ways, a win for Ireland but Krum getting the Snitch.”_ _

__Mycroft said nothing to this, just grinned into his glass. _Oh, the things I do for you.__ _

__

__1998_ _

__Greg was holed up in his flat most nights, feeling anxious and wary. His wand never left his hand, his gun never left his side. The magical world was thrown into utter chaos. It had been disintegrating from within for some time now, but those small cracks, those telltale fissures, had only grown until there was nothing left to their normally well-ordered lives. He'd seen those witches and wizards he'd known and trusted throw in their lot with Thicknesse. Whether it was out of fear or a well-placed Imperius curse, no one could tell. It had all turned his hair prematurely grey. Mycroft fared no better. He'd taken to comfort-eating again, as he did in school, although now he didn't have a teenager's metabolism to rely on. New suits and robes were required, and his sudden change in build earned him his brother's derision. He and Greg often felt like they were the last two threads holding things together, and they were both stretched as far as they could go without snapping. They were each other's only comfort, all that was keeping each other sane. It was a dark, dreary time._ _

__Then, one evening, Mycroft abandoned all caution and Apparated directly into Scotland Yard fully dressed in wizard garb. Several people gasped in alarm. Greg stood up at his desk, looking shocked and furious. In two words, though, he shifted gears._ _

__“It's happening.”_ _

__“Where?” Greg asked, shoving his chair back. He looked like he'd been waiting for this for ages!_ _

__“Hogwarts. Now.”_ _

__Greg cast aside his suit coat and tie, Summoning a set of wizard's robes to his outstretched hand without a word. He whipped them on fluidly and drew his wand out of his desk set. “Excellent!”_ _

__“Time to get tough, Hufflepuff.”_ _

__“Never approach a badger when it's cornered,” Greg replied, feeling exulted by the sudden call to arms. Since he was about to Obliviate everyone here anyway, he decided to indulge. “I love you,” he purred, and pulled his husband in for a kiss._ _

__The second they broke apart, Mycroft cast the wide-shot memory charm on the room, and at the same time they Disapparated._ _

__They reappeared in the village of Hogsmeade, just in time to see a flock of Slytherin students streaming out of The Hog's Head. They were deserting! Mycroft gaped at them. Many of them were of age! Why didn't they stand and fight? He grabbed at one girl's arm, who was clearly seventeen. “What the devil are you doing? Hogwarts needs you! Defend her!”_ _

__“And get myself killed? No way!” The rest of the group shouted agreements as they fled. Mycroft and Greg kept snatching at them. There were students of other Houses, of course, but the majority of the deserters wore Slytherin green. Mycroft was absolutely furious at his House's betrayal._ _

__“Stand and fight, cowards! What's the matter with you?!” Greg demanded. “We can't do this alone!”_ _

__“Get back in there, all of you who are old enough. Don't turn your back on your school, you owe it to them!” Mycroft felt enraged, affronted, as he watched the students flee. The younger ones, he allowed. They shouldn't be expected to defend the school in her hour of need. The seventh year students, though, he felt disgust._ _

__“Come on, Mycroft, let's do this. Find out where these kids are coming from and follow it into the castle.” He was itching for action, feeling quite giddy in anticipation. They found the portrait of Ariana and climbed in. They followed the tunnel with lit wands._ _

__“I'm proud of you,” Greg said abruptly, smiling at his husband in unmasked admiration._ _

__“What for?”_ _

__“Your loyalty to the school, you're not afraid of putting in the work for something worthwhile. Justice, friendship...” he trailed off._ _

__Mycroft wrinkled his nose, “What are you getting at?”_ _

__Greg stopped and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. “Just that I think we may get Sorted too young.” And with that, he waved his wand over Mycroft's tie, changing his pin by superimposing a hematite and pyrite badger over his silver and emerald snake._ _

__He looked down at his pin, then back at Greg, and takes his hand. He kissed Greg's wrist, palm, and fingers as they did in their early courtship. “Promise me something, my dear.”_ _

__“Sure, Swan, anything.”_ _

__“If anything happens to me, look after Sherlock for me, will you? Help him if you can.”_ _

__“Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”_ _

__They continued on in silence, holding hands, feeling jittery as each step brings them closer to the battle. They emerged from the portrait hole, got a good look at each other, and fell into a hearty embrace. “Try and stay close,” Greg advised. “Don't want to lose you in all that.”_ _

__“No, no, of course not.” He tugged at his robes, straightening himself up. “How do I look?”_ _

__“Beautiful,” Greg said without hesitation. “And deadly.”_ _

__They strode in together. Several portraits recognized them and cheered at their arrival, as they did when any help appeared to swell their ranks. “Class of 85 reporting in!” Greg called down to Professor McGonagall._ _

__“Oh, I'm glad to see you boys,” she gasped as they strode toward her to receive directions._ _

__Madame Hooch whooped at the sight of them and tossed Greg a Beater's club. “Think you still know what to do with that, Lestrade, dear?”_ _

__Greg grinned savagely, hefting it in his hands. It was his favorite one, he could tell by the carved-out scratches near the end. It was the one he'd used when they won the Quidditch cup in his seventh year. He gave it a kiss, anticipating knocking someone's block off with it. “God, I love this school,” he growled. Mycroft gave the Great Hall a similar look, mentally vowing ruin on those who would do his alma mater harm. He hooked his umbrella over his arm and flexed his fingers, wishing he was in better shape for what was to come. He hopped in place, limbering up, making wide circles with his arms._ _

__In no time at all, the battle broke out. Enemies swarmed in and it was pandemonium! Greg used his wand and club indiscriminately, while Mycroft fired off hex after hex, swinging his umbrella like a sword. He'd certainly kept in practice with his defensive spellwork! It was a sight glorious to behold. A Death Eater was dueling with Professor Sprout when Greg swung his club across his head and the neck snapped with a satisfying _crack!__ _

__“Don't you touch her,” he grunted savagely, kicking the body away._ _

__Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mycroft skipping in place with his fists raised, treating his current opponent to a display of Muggle dueling. Out of shape or not, Mycroft's long legs were an advantage here. He sprang at his adversary, kicking him hard in the chest like a kangaroo, before finishing him off with a curse._ _

__“Good form, Mycroft!” Greg called. “Nice footwork!”_ _

__“Had a good teacher,” he replied, breathing heavily, loosening his robes for the next bout._ _

__Greg paid for his moment of distraction, though, as a Death Eater took that opportunity to send a burning slash across his back. He grimaced in pain and sank to his knees as she gloated over him, content to leave him in agony rather than finish him off. Mycroft saw and sprang at her, snarling, wielding his umbrella. In a jet of green light, she crumpled to the ground, dead before she hit._ _

__“Ought to know better than to strike a badger when his mate is nearby,” Mycroft muttered lightly, casting a cooling charm where the curse had struck. The angry, red weal soon began to heal. The pain was already gone. “All right?”_ _

__“Yeah. You?”_ _

__Mycroft simply growled eagerly. The thrill of the battle was upon both of them, they felt the frenzy and were ready to fight once more._ _

__“Can't believe you still keep your wand in that umbrella,” Greg grunted, clubbing someone over the head with his Beater's bat._ _

__“Keeps me from having to change hands,” Mycroft replied smoothly, cracking an opponent in the skull with the handle, spinning it in his hands with the dexterity of a baton twirler, and hitting them with a jinx a second later._ _

__“You and your trusty quarterstaff,” Greg observed with a grin._ _

__

__It wasn't long before the battle ceased to excite them, and they were simply toiling on against wave after wave of opponents. Not just humans, but giants, spiders, and other more unspeakable Dark creatures. They'd gotten separated by now, but were too occupied to seek each other out. When Voldemort finally called a time-out to tend to their wounded and bury their dead, Greg simply slumped against the wall._ _

__Of all things, he thought guiltily of his and Mycroft's new owls. Apollo and Drusilla lay buried in Mycroft's back garden under a tree they'd often roosted on together. They'd lived good, long lives. Despite Mycroft's constant assurance against sentimentality, Greg knew he missed his pet. They chose new ones together, opting for the same breed so hopefully they could mate together. Already, their brown and golden tawnies were good friends._ _

_I forgot to feed Eglantine before I left. She's still stuck in her cage. Mycroft's owl usually comes to hunt with her. Maybe Vincent will get her out if we never_ —he stopped himself from continuing this train of thought. They would make it through this, they had to! He watched as the dead were seen to, amazed how small some of them were. A Gryffindor boy, who looked so young lay dead on a stone slab. He'd seen the child moments before, fighting as bravely as anyone twice his age and size. Greg forced himself to stand, stumbling over to pay his respects to the dead. Tears burst out at the sight of these strangers, those who gave their lives for the cause. He bent down and touched their cold hands in turn. “Thank you.” 

__A huddle of redheads surrounded one body, they all were grieving loudly over a young man about Sherlock's age. Looking at the large family, Greg wondered how many of them will survive the night. He straightened up and trudged through the rubble, too tired to even try to find Mycroft._ _

__Outside in the courtyard, on the remains of one of the stone benches that they used to cuddle on, Mycroft lay panting, lightly bleeding through a cut across his head. His immaculate robes were singed and torn and bloodied. Bit by bit, their hour's grace was swallowed up, and once again, Voldemort's voice rang over the school, magically amplified for his moment of triumph. Harry Potter was dead, he told them gloatingly. Dead, trying to escape. He'd won._ _

___Greg..._ Mycroft thought faintly, screwing his face up against the despair as he imagined what this would mean for his world, his worlds. His consciousness slipped away, and all was dark._ _

__A blasting sound moments later restored him to his senses, and he sat up sharply. Impossibly, he saw Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort squaring off not twenty yards from where he lay. He couldn't hear their words, but it appeared as though Harry had come back for the last word. One last blast and Mycroft saw red and green jets of light meet between the two combatants. Then, in perfect simplicity, Voldemort fell down dead. The entire surrounding crowd erupted into cheers! Dawn broke, and Mycroft nearly wept._ _

___Hope springs eternal_ , he thought absurdly as he struggled to his feet. He picked his way carefully through the crowd and the rubble, he didn't care about anything else at the moment when he had to find Greg._ _

__“Greg! Greg, where are you?!” He called over and over. His voice broke, screeching the man's name like a demon summoning its prey. “GREG?!?!”_ _

__He heard coughing, he loped over awkwardly, hoping, fighting against hope. He saw a broken, burnt Beater's bat laying in a heap of crumbled stone. A hand was visible amid the dust. There was that cough again. “Greg?” Mycroft ventured cautiously. He bent down over...someone. The dust was too thick, someone was lying completely motionless apart from his convulsive coughing. Then, his eyes flickered open._ _

__“Swan? My swan...” Greg sighed happily. “Is...is it over, then?”_ _

__“Yes,” Mycroft told him, tears streaming down his face._ _

__“Oh, good. Did...cough...did we win?”_ _

__“Yes,” he said again, kneeling down next to him and taking his hands._ _

__“Mycroft,” Greg groaned, smiling wearily. “ 'm so glad t'see you. H-hold me, will you? I hurt all over.”_ _

__He all too happily obeyed, cradling him in his arms. A few minutes later, he helped him to his feet and they stood together amid all of the rejoicing and grief, simply gazing at each other, amazed at how lucky they were to have made it._ _

__“Hell with it,” Greg muttered carelessly, cupping Mycroft's face and kissing him deeply. “God, I love you. My swan.”_ _

__“Let's go home.”_ _

__They were both exhausted, though. Neither of them had the strength to Disapparate just yet. Greg dragged them both to the barrels that concealed the Hufflepuff common room. The false ones had burst and the smell of vinegar was heavy in the air. They climbed in, hoping to find someplace to rest. Miraculously, Greg found his old bed unoccupied. He and Mycroft flopped down on it and cuddled together, kicking off their shoes. Others seemed to share the same idea, and soon the dormitory was full. Those whose wounds weren't bad enough to need attention, who were simply exhausted and in need of rest. House elves scurried here and there, comforting the weary, bringing food and blankets. Greg rolled over, witnessing this, thanking them each by name as the other Hufflepuffs did. After a good long rest, he and Mycroft sat up and an elf was there beside them with a tray. Along with sandwiches and two bowls of soup, they brought a few precious strawberry jam tarts. Somehow, that kind gesture melted Mycroft's facade yet again. He remembered how Greg had once told him that the house elves knew and remembered everybody. He couldn't speak without risking tears. Greg cuddled him, understanding without words._ _

__“Thank you,” Greg told them again. “You're the best.”_ _

__The house-elves bowed or curtsied bashfully and scurried away to wherever else they'd be needed. “I swear, they're the ones holding this place together,” Greg told Mycroft._ _

__“I'm inclined to agree with you.”_ _

__After they were well rested and fed enough to travel, Mycroft and Greg dragged themselves up, freeing the bed for others who would need it. They walked out the front doors and down to the huge wrought-iron gate. Just before they crossed to where they could Disapparate, Greg picked up a brick._ _

__“Souvenir,” he explained. Mycroft didn't even bother scoffing at the man's sentimentality. Together, they spun in place and reappeared in Mycroft's house. He led them up the stairs and into the bathroom where he drew a hot, steaming bath for two. He added generous drops of eucalyptus and tea tree oil, which are both good soothing oils and make excellent soaks for injuries, as well as a cupful of Epsom salt. They sank in together with a satisfied sigh, and began cleaning each other's wounds. Luckily, they weren't badly hurt._ _

__After their bath, they went to the master bedroom, changed into clean nightclothes, and went straight to bed._ _

__“Don't worry about work tomorrow. We just helped save the world. I'll phone you in,” Mycroft murmured, kissing Greg's temple. They snuggled together and fell asleep._ _


	5. Lesson Five: New Beginnings

2005

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, listening with pleased amusement as Greg reported to him about his first day with Sherlock assisting an investigation. Despite the fact that they both survived what came to be known as The Battle of Hogwarts, Greg kept his promise to help Sherlock find a meaningful career. He was cocky, arrogant, and he didn't play well with others, but Lestrade saw enough marked similarities between him and his big brother that he found these traits almost endearing. He also had to remind himself to act as though he had no connection to Mycroft. Not an easy task when faced with the perceptive younger Holmes brother. Still, years of being an undercover wizard posing as a Muggle taught him to keep certain walls up, to only let people see what he wanted them to see.

Greg sat in a chair in his flat, regaling his lover with his latest story. “One thing, Mycroft, he keeps getting my name wrong! Like he honestly can't remember, but we've seen each other! He saw us together at your house once, remember?”

Mycroft's pose of ease faltered, he almost looked guilty. “Yes, I remember. Curious.”

“Swan...”

“Yes, dear?”

“You gonna tell me what that's about?”

“Be more specific.”

Greg thought it through carefully, not liking the conclusion he was coming to. “You did a Memory Charm on him. He saw us together, and you made him forget.”

“Bit stronger than I intended,” Mycroft admitted casually. “He seems permanently incapable of remembering your name.”

Greg growled into the phone. “You did permanent brain damage to your little brother and that's all you can say? Stronger than you intended?!”

“He's otherwise unharmed,” Mycroft excused himself lightly.

“You're a real bastard, you know that?”

“I love you, too, dear.” And he hung up.

He laid his phone aside and dropped his head into his hands. It had been a long day. He felt drowsy already. Mycroft thought fondly about Greg, grateful that the man would willingly endure his brother's antics. It had been some time since they'd been able to see each other in person. Their various jobs kept them both busy. The dust should settle soon, though, Mycroft hoped.

As a consolation to himself, he opened his pocket watch and gazed at the tiny moving picture inside. He watched his and Greg's teenaged selves cuddling together in the Hogwarts courtyard. They kissed and nuzzled and petted each other, running their fingers through each other's hair, cozily loving each other forever.

Hours later, Anthea, Mycroft's new personal assistant, let herself into the office. She paused at the sight of her sleeping boss. With a warm smile, she crept behind him. Then she saw his watch. It was rimmed with planets, and had twelve hands. But what she really noticed was the moving picture. She looked from the watch to her boss with raised eyebrows.

 

The next morning, Mycroft and Anthea sat together over coffee. Anthea's eyes sparkled with her new knowledge.

“Mr. Holmes, sir?”

“Yes, Anthea? What is it?”

“I, uh, never knew something about you.”

“Oh? I'm sure there are a great number of things about me that you never realized. What, praytell, is your latest discovery?” He took a deep sip of coffee and looked perfectly at ease.

“I...never knew you cared for...Scottish rugby.”

Mycroft choked, nearly doing a spit-take. Still, he forced himself to remain calm. He swallowed with a heavy gulp and set the cup down. “Scottish rugby?” He squinted at her, shaking a finger in her direction. “ _You_ don't support Scottish rugby,” he accused.

“No, I don't,” she admitted. “My parents do, though. I was a...bit of a black sheep in the family, sir. Didn't quite fit. I like your watch, sir. My father has one like it. Reminded me of home. I learned to tell time on one when I was little. You wouldn't believe how hard it was to change over to...normal clocks.”

“Yes...” he murmured thoughtfully. “You saw...saw it open, did you?”

Anthea stirred cream into her coffee with a pleasant smile. “I did, sir. That young man you're with in the picture...who is he? Where is he now?”

“He's my husband. He lives in London, but he'll soon drop by. I'm sure you'll see him before the week is out.”

“He's very handsome, sir. Very nice eyes.”

“Yes, I agree,” Mycroft smiled, as if picturing him in his mind's eye. “He's seen a fair bit of trouble since that picture was taken. Turned half his hair grey. I used to tease him about it, telling him he looks like his House mascot.”

“Hufflepuff, then?” Mycroft muttered an affirmative. “And you were probably in Slytherin, right?”

“Right again. Look here, Anthea. How well would you say you...coped with...I mean you're a...a...”

“A Squib? Don't worry, it's not a dirty word. I'm not ashamed of it. My parents are very understanding. Sure, we were all disappointed, but we've gotten over that. It wasn't anybody's fault, it can't be helped. I've done the best I can with what I have.”

“Very healthy attitude,” Mycroft praised. “Good girl. And I needn't tell you to keep this information to ourselves.”

“Of course, sir.”

He had the distinct feeling that his new assistant was going to fit in perfectly.

That same week, Detective Inspector Lestrade made the mistake of stepping away from his desk while Sally Donovan was on the loose. It had been seemingly harmless, she'd shouted at him from his office as he was refilling his coffee, asking to borrow his stapler. He grunted an affirmative before realizing with a cold shock what he'd had hidden in his desk drawer! He dashed back, spilling his coffee in the process, but he was too late. Sally had sunk down into his own chair, gawking openly at the framed moving photograph he kept stashed away.

“I...I can explain,” he stammered.

“Oh, I've seen these. Picture frames that play short video clips. Cute. But who...?” Donovan trailed off, tearing her eyes from the picture up to her superior. She recognized Greg's teenaged self, his shaggy black hair made him look like a punk rocker, but...“That boy? Does Mrs. Lestrade know about this?”

“Well, unless you're referring to my mother, then he is 'Mrs.' Lestrade,” he explained. “He's...we...I mean, we were just kids, but we knew almost instantly.” He hoped she would give the photo back before she noticed anything else odd about the picture, like the fact that they were both wearing robes, and his Silver Arrow was lying near their bench.

“Right.” She looked back at the picture and grinned. “He's cute.” Sally thought of this revelation, then added it to things she'd known or observed about her friend. “He's your swan. That's how all those notes are signed. I've heard you call someone that over the phone before, too. I think it's sweet.”

Greg relaxed with a sigh, actually fanning himself off. “You know, when we were kids, just realizing that about ourselves, we were terrified. We thought we'd have to hide forever. We get awfully sick of hiding, but we don't want to be put on display, either. We just want to be treated like normal people, like any other couple out there. He was especially pessimistic. I remember at our first dance...god, the first time we danced together it felt...felt like flying. Y'know? But he was so sure that no one would ever accept us, apart from a few teachers who happened to catch us together. He gave me his ring when we were seventeen, we've considered ourselves married ever since.”

“You know, peoples' attitudes about all that are changing. It's more normal than it used to be. Doesn't change what I think of you at all. As long as you're happy, right?”

“Really? You mean it?” It was always a load off his mind when people could accept that about him.

Donovan shrugged. “Just means I've been barking up the wrong tree for years.”

“What, you?” Greg asked in surprise.

Putting her hands on her hips, Sally rose from his seat and gave him a teasingly defiant look. “Well, what do you think I meant all those times I asked you out for coffee?”

Greg looked thoughtful. “Guess that explains why you were never pleased when I brought coffee for the crew. Sorry, that just went right by me. That was you flirting?” He was almost laughing about it. He and Sally Donovan had gotten on all right as members of the same team, but he wouldn't have suspected her to have something more on her mind. “Don't know what to tell you, Sally, but you're not my type.”

She didn't look hurt at all, just handed the picture back to him with a smile. “He's a lucky man. Though from the looks of it, I'd say you are, too.”

Greg took the picture and gazed at it intently. “Yeah, I am.”


End file.
